


The Bisbee Guide to All Matters Etiquette for Young People in Social Crises

by radicalskeletal



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Exhibitionism, Financial Domination, Humiliation, M/M, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon, Spanking, courtship rituals of the 19th century cowboy, wife what wife lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 04:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18887023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radicalskeletal/pseuds/radicalskeletal
Summary: “Is that what this is about? You getting me to show my belly like some kind of dog?” Morgan sounded curious, even as the set of his chin suggested rebellion.Josiah threw his head back with an impolite bark of laughter. “You wouldn't know how to go belly up if you were a dead fish, Mr. Morgan.”--The parable of the magpie and the hound, a tale of love most binding.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I funked the timeline a little because I wanted the dynamic between particular characters to be more established. Essentially everything is the same, but some gang members joined earlier and I pushed the Blackwater Massacre back.

Though she had been a fine lady, God rest her soul, Josiah's mother had not been the most prepared woman when it came time to leave England. This had not entirely been her fault, seeing as she had been in hot pursuit by no less than three spurned lovers-turned-victims-of-larceny, but all the same the prizes she brought to America were consequently unhelpful at best, and at worst random. Though a full manifest of the contents of her steam trunk were lost to time, a few were conspicuous enough to warrant a place in Josiah's memory: a yellow silk sash, a pair of crystal earrings, and a book.

 

Those three in particular had not precisely been acquired by Ada Trelawny honestly, but it wasn't like they'd be missed from the bedchamber of her ladyship Emily Fettington. Besides, even if they had been looked for, no one would have suspected Lady Emily's mousy maid. Nonetheless, no matter how crooked their origin in Josiah's life, these were the things he remembered most, because this was his introduction to the way he knew his life had to be someday: shamelessly decadent.

 

Sitting in the hold of a steamer crawling toward America, that scarf had been the softest thing he'd ever touched. He'd never seen the like of the shine the little crystals in the earrings threw against the wall when the sunlight caught them. His poor mother had given him the little treasures to shut up his sniveling about how hungry he'd been, and then how seasick he'd been, and then how hungry, and so on and so forth until they'd reached New York.

 

Despite not always having a full can of beans between them for dinner in America, Ada pawned nothing. She wouldn't shame herself, and her English treasures stayed in her possession until the day she'd died. Josiah buried the earrings with her. The book, a florid etiquette guide at least a decade out of date, had been lost in the shuffle of settling in one place to another for the first few years after arriving in New York. That wasn't so much a bother, as Josiah had begged his mother every night to read it to him for his bed time story and he had the blasted thing memorized from cover to cover.

 

Its had been droll enough to put him to sleep, but some bits were silly enough to make the two of them laugh. He looked back on its counsel fondly, though he hadn't taken a bit of it to heart. Recent events, however, had forced him to reconsider his scorn.

 

_He must make discreet inquiries to the nature of her interest without speaking to his fair conqueror, as to determine whether his further attentions would be distasteful to her._

— _The Bisbee Guide to All Matters Etiquette for Young People in Social Crises, page 12_

 

Morgan had never outright ridiculed Josiah, but he'd made his contempt plain all the same. A smarter man, perhaps, would have avoided Arthur Morgan, recognizing the peril in poking a bear. Josiah, however, knew that his greatest fault was that he had more pride than brains.

 

Morgan sneered when Josiah conjured flowers for little Jack. _Take care that your face doesn't harden into such an ill-tempered look forever, Mr. Morgan_ , he had tutted, and Morgan had gotten dangerously pink in the face when Hosea had laughed.

 

He frowned when Dutch pulled him to play as Josiah's muscle on jobs. _I hope this isn't beneath your skills, dear boy_ , Josiah had jabbed.

 

Even Uncle could pull himself from a bottle long enough to comment _Oh, this ought to be good!_ in a failed whisper-shout whenever Morgan's face darkened in Josiah's direction.

 

There was, however, the matter that Morgan, whether he liked Josiah or not, was a large part of Josiah's meal ticket. And if Morgan was caught in the hands of the law, he incidentally couldn't well provide for the Van der Linde gang. There was also the small business of Josiah being more than a little mad for the sour-faced loner, but there was no need to concern Morgan with his affairs. Given any excuse, Morgan had made himself more than plain on his judgment of Josiah: he'd found him wanting for anything more than idle talk.

 

Consequently, when Josiah heard about Morgan's arrest, he'd talked his way back to him, spinning a yarn so thick that he'd impressed even himself. His quick wits and charisma did not a gunslinger make, but a fine actor. If nothing else, Josiah Trelawny could be counted on to charm himself out of a sticky situation. And if he could talk his way in and out of the Van der Linde camp as he pleased, he could cajole Arthur Morgan out of a jail cell.

 

Morgan was escorted to the sheriff's desk with iron cuffs holding his wrists behind his back and an unpleasant faced man at each elbow. His bottom lip had been split no more than a few hours ago, and yellowing bruises peppered his jaw. It appeared that Morgan had been giving the law trouble. He grunted a curse when he was forced to his knees.

 

“I hope you won't mind that we gave as good as we got with this one, Marshal.” The sheriff seemed less sorry and more like he wanted one last go at Morgan. Josiah struggled to hide his glowing, haughty pride. He had never met anyone more capable of making a headache of himself than Arthur Morgan.

 

Morgan was not a man of the stage. He'd be quite the weak link in this scheme. Josiah himself had seen Hosea try to teach him the finer points of impersonation, but it clearly hadn't taken. Josiah had considered that when planning his jailbreak, but he still felt a coil of nerves clench when Morgan's eyes widened as they caught on Josiah, lounging at the sheriff's desk. He appeared dumbstruck—whether to see Trelawny at all, or his costume of a broad hat, vest, and knee boots, Josiah couldn't speculate. Embarrassed heat snaked up Josiah's neck.

 

Josiah kept his face cold and unfamiliar. If he gave Morgan an inch, all would be lost. “Not at all, sir. In my time tracking this dimwit, I haven't found him much of a gentleman.”

 

One of the men at Morgan's shoulders guffawed. Morgan's eyes darkened with murder.

 

Right. Time to play his hand before Morgan foiled his own rescue. Blind fool.

 

Josiah rose from the sheriff's desk and floated over to Morgan with the arrogance of a king—or, accordingly, the arrogance of a Deputy Marshal. He gripped Morgan by his hair and hauled him up. Morgan grunted and arched back, eyes blown with alarm. Josiah kept his eyes aloof, even as Morgan squirmed.

 

“Two thousand large for you? Just doesn't seem right.” The Midwestern accent was getting thicker on Josiah's tongue. Time to cut and run before the prey got wise.

 

He turned a more friendly eye to the sheriff as the gloved thumb of his free hand glided over Morgan's split lip to cut off his fussing. Morgan gasped and fell silent. “I'll be needing his piece before I take him back to Missouri. You know how the lawyers can be.”

 

The sheriff laughed. “Too true.”

 

When Morgan shifted, Josiah added, “Give me his hat, too. I like his hat.”

 

The deputies—though Josiah hesitated to call them anything but dumb bruisers—hoisted Morgan over the back of his horse as Josiah and the sheriff jawed about the best route back to St. Louis. Josiah eyed Morgan thunderously when he writhed in the direction of Josiah's rifle holstered in his saddle. Morgan slumped back with a glare.

 

Josiah thanked the lawmen for their time and pocketed the prisoner transfer telegraph, signed after nothing more than a glance by the sheriff. After listening patiently for directions to the best chili outside of Tulsa, he clucked Old Boy into a comfortable trot. Morgan muttered something about his captor's questionable parentage before they were out of earshot, so really Josiah had no choice but to give him a quick cuff over the back of his head, eyes on the road.

 

It was a silent two miles before Morgan spoke again. “Just over the next hill, Mr. Trelawny. If they were followin' us, they wouldn't'a been able to keep their traps shut this long.”

 

“As you say, Mr. Morgan. I must admit I was just getting used to you trussed up like a kidnapped damsel.”

 

“Just don't go droppin' me on any tracks now. How exactly do you propose to get me out of these irons?”

 

Josiah slowed John Marston's horse around the next bend in the road with a grateful pat at his neck. He craned his head down to peer at Morgan, bent over Old Boy's rump, and gave him a wink. “Have you forgotten who you've taken up with? By all accounts, I have quite the magic touch, if you will permit me.”

 

Morgan's eyes burned in the sunlight when they weren't hidden behind his hat. “Why'd ya come after me, Trelawny? You run outta suckers to cheat in Blackwater with your cut-rate trickery?”

 

As damnably easy as that, Josiah felt his satisfaction crumble. Morgan scarcely spoke to Josiah outside of business or in passing, but his candid words could cut him down like no one else's, because Josiah had never let them. Yet the moment Morgan Morgan opened his lips, Josiah always, helplessly stopped to listen, and when he spoke himself, he sought Morgan out to be sure he was heard.

 

Josiah looked away and swung down from the saddle. He schooled his face in his saddle bag while he hunted for his lock pick. “The day I run out of dupes to swindle is the day you'll see the last of me. Down you get now. This is hardly the place for us to dally!”

 

Between the two of them, they wriggled Morgan off the horse. Josiah's arms supported his strong, thick waist until Morgan's feet settled in the dirt. Morgan smelled of leather and sweat, and his mouth was pulled into a considering twist as Josiah's lock pick clicked at his wrists. Josiah was close enough behind him to smell Morgan's sweat and count the freckles on the back of his neck.

 

Morgan said, “You weren't the cavalry I was expecting.”

 

“It appears you have a lot to learn about me, Mr. Morgan.” Josiah released the irons.

 

Morgan rolled his shoulders up to his ears with a sigh of relief. “Maybe so,” he grunted. “Where's my hat?”

 

Josiah gave Morgan a humored look and pulled it out of Old Boy's saddlebag and hoisted himself up to the balls of his feet to prop it over Morgan's brow himself.

 

Morgan's shoulders were tense and his eyes were sharp when Josiah stepped away. Josiah felt his smile cool and modestly folded his hands in front of himself.

 

“I must apologize for the liberties I took earlier, dear boy.”

 

Morgan grunted a soft laugh and met Josiah's eyes more gently. He clapped Josiah on the shoulder and stepped up to Old Boy to inspect the saddlebags himself. “Don't worry, Trelawny. You didn't get too fresh on me. My wallet in here?”

 

“Your satchel is in the bag on the right. If it's all the same to you, I get no pleasure out of abusing my colleagues. My deepest regrets.”

 

Morgan grinned at him over Marston's saddle. “I weren't so ravished as all that. Come 'ere.” Morgan counted out bills in his wallet and held a stack out to Josiah. “It's not much, but I'm still worth more alive than dead.”

 

In Josiah's defense, he didn't realize that his face had gone sad and sour until it was too late. Feeling like a rank idiot, he twisted his mouth up into a quick, thin-lipped smile. “No charge, Mr. Morgan.”

 

Morgan's hand dropped to his side awkwardly, looking oddly shamed. “Must be something I can do for you, for your trouble,” he mumbled gruffly. Dumb, darling oaf.

 

“You can ride with me back to camp. Mr. Marston will be needing his horse, and we'll be needing ours. Boadicea is waiting for you back at camp—she found her way on her own. I thought it best to not risk recognition by riding her or Gwydion.”

 

Morgan's mouth bent in a thoughtful curl as he nodded. Wordlessly, he mounted Old Boy and extended an arm down to help Josiah. With a graceless clamber, Josiah hoisted himself up behind the saddle. He faltered before he cupped his hands over Morgan's rigid shoulders.

 

Josiah chewed on his lip as they loped towards West Elizabeth. Morgan's scent gusted back to him in the breeze—tobacco and salt. He thought about Morgan's suspicious stares and his hands on his pistol, his laugh in camp at night, as startled to make it as it was unexpected to hear it.

 

“I confess I'd been wondering what you looked like on your knees, Arthur Morgan,” Josiah said, and gave his shoulders a squeeze.

 

Morgan's breath caught, and Josiah felt the jolt beneath his hands. He was silent long enough that Josiah had time to sink into a humiliated panic, crush that beneath wounded reasoning, and chart a plan to apologize to Morgan for the second time that night before drinking himself to sleep—but then Arthur demolished his intentions, as he so often had a habit of doing.

 

“I'm not against you seein' it again,” he mumbled. His back shored up defensively.

 

Josiah blinked at the pink back of Morgan's neck. Oh no.

 

Morgan was so close for the taking, offering himself—more than Josiah deserved, more than he had ever expected. Yet it wasn't enough, because Josiah was a depraved and broken man.

 

He couldn't just have Arthur Morgan without _owning_ him. Possession was nine tenths of Josiah's love, and Josiah didn't know how he could ever ask something like that from Morgan.

 

Josiah said nothing more, but let one hand rest gently between Morgan's shoulder blades.

 

To say that Josiah avoided Morgan after that would have been not completely accurate, but close to the truth. Josiah simply knew Morgan's habits, and knew when to steer clear of the coffee or the campfire. When Josiah noticed that Morgan seemed to be changing his timetable in a deliberate attempt to seek him out, he left camp altogether, and took a room in Blackwater to drink and hide and decide which of his homes he would drink and hide in some more until this whole Arthur Morgan problem fizzled out.

 

Needless to say, he had forgotten that Morgan was a dog with a bone.

 

Morgan found him again no more than a two days later, sipping tea and nursing a devil of a hangover on the balcony of the Blackwater saloon.

 

“Mr. Morgan.” Josiah rose and gestured at the wrought iron garden chair facing his own. “Please, won't you join me?”

 

“Much obliged, Mr. Trelawny.”

 

Josiah could feel his nostrils flaring in annoyance. His boat ticket for California was burning a hole in his pocket. He was to board in just a few hours, and hadn't even packed yet. He wasn't sure if he would—perhaps he'd leave his fine things for the help at the hotel. It wasn't like he didn't have more waiting for him in California. Self-sabotage, the kind of thing that made one proposition an associate he couldn't pursue, made him reckless and melancholy.

 

Josiah smiled a little coldly, squinting in the late morning sun. His head throbbed. “I'd offer you tea, but the waiters knows me well enough to know I don't like to be disturbed when I ask to sit here.”

 

He let the implication of Morgan's interruption hang discouragingly in the air. Morgan only nodded and took the other seat. Truly, Josiah was a common enough sight here that they understood that during the empty mornings, when Josiah asked for the balcony, he wanted to be left alone by servers and patrons alike.

 

“Wasn't sure where to find you, but Karen told me after I gave her a few drinks.”

 

Josiah prayed that the world was yet merciful enough that Morgan hadn't gone from person to person. _Excuse me, madam? I'm looking for a thief and conman called Josiah Trelawny. He implied that he liked to see me on my knees and turned coward. Do you know where I can find him?_

 

Josiah thoughtfully argued the merits of throwing himself over the balcony rail. Karen and he got on like a good bit of arson, but he had thought that she would know better than to intrude on his business. The Arthur Morgan kind of business in particular.

 

Josiah traced the candle of the teapot. “I didn't realize there was something you needed that couldn't wait until I was in camp again.”

 

“There is.” Arthur's eyes bore into his, sucking the breath from his lungs.

 

Josiah's patience frayed, parched at being so close to something he'd wanted for so long. He looked askance at the curve of Morgan's neck and his fingertips burned.

 

“I may have implied more than you are capable of offering. Deepest apologies, dear boy.” He meant to leave it at that, concluding the discussion with a tight smile.

 

Morgan was a bloodhound with a scent. Josiah should have known that he wouldn't scare so easy. He set his jaw and said, “I don't think that's true.”

 

Josiah closed his eyes against Morgan briefly. He was torn in equal parts between shaking Morgan to his senses and having his way with him on a Blackwater saloon table.

 

“You are not,” he murmured slowly, “realizing the gravity of what I want.”

 

Morgan's expression didn't change, not really. Except that it did, and Josiah gazed right back.

 

“I really don't think I could let you go if I had you, and if I had you, you'd be mine. You'd be more than my sweetheart, you would be my property.”

 

“Is that what this is about? You getting me to show my belly like some kind of dog?” Morgan sounded curious, even as the set of his chin suggested rebellion.

 

Josiah threw his head back with an impolite bark of laughter. “You wouldn't know how to go belly up if you were a dead fish, Mr. Morgan.”

 

Morgan's frowned, deciding if he should be offended or not.

 

“I like to hold people to a code that makes them better than they were before. I break people to their bare nature and remake them. You can get lost, and I'll help you find your way back and keep you safe.”

 

Morgan's shoulders shuddered as his breath suddenly returned. He swallowed loudly. “What kind of code?”

 

“One that we make together. I'm sure you have limits to what you will subject yourself to, and I respect that. I have expectations I wish to be honored in return.”

 

“Would it be like before? When you saved me from the law.”

 

Josiah hesitated. Seeing Morgan bruised and willful on the floor had overrun his daydreams for the better part of the past days, but he didn't want to merely hurt him. And if he did want to hurt him, it was only because he cared.

 

“I don't particularly want to misuse you so all the time, dear boy. That was day was a special occasion. That was me running down a lost dog.”

 

Morgan chewed the inside of his cheek, but bless him, he didn't balk. Morgan Morgan, the bitterest apple of Dutch's boys and the singular obsession of Josiah's fantasies for longer than he cared to admit, was hearing some of his most shameful secrets and was more than intent, but wholly absorbed. _This man will be the death of me._

 

“And what if I'm not the model victim you have in mind? I'm known to be more trouble than I'm worth.” Morgan leered defiantly. He was getting his feet under him again.

 

“I'll discipline you if I find you wanting.”

 

“You think that you can punish me?”

 

“Are you really so naive to think that I can't?”

 

Morgan suddenly flushed and hid his scruffy head under the brim of his hat. Josiah felt an unbearable rush of fondness.

 

Morgan tossed his head and sprawled against the back of the chair, a vexing twist to his mouth. “Pull the other one, shouldn't I be bossin' _you_ around?”

 

Josiah sipped his tea and let Morgan sit and wait until he had a tight rein on his bristling—not at the idea of submitting to Morgan, no, but at the idea that there was something shameful in compliance at all, as if he was demanding something disgraceful—before he spoke again. He had Morgan where he might never keep him, but he was going to milk this for as long as Morgan let him. He couldn't let his pride sabotage this.

 

“There's no shame in any part of such a partnership, but I think you will value what you learn from depending on someone to look after you. If you'll permit me, I can show you.”

 

Morgan's lazy look fixed, but his eyes warmed in consideration. He kept his insolent sprawl, but he waved a hand in a lazy sort of _as you wish_.

 

Josiah swigged the last of his tea and shouldered off the jacket from his back. He edge his chair away from the table and laid his jack down on the balcony beside his feet. Steadying his choked nerves with a slow breath, he leaned back into the chair and crossed his ankle over his knee.

 

“Oh, don't worry, you'll pay for it later,” Josiah chuckled at Morgan's eyes lingering on the dark linen of his coat. Morgan's face suggested that he had no intention of doing such a thing, but that was a battle for Josiah to win in time. “Kneel, and we can speak further.”

 

Morgan hesitated.

 

Josiah smiled serenely, but God help him if he couldn't fight the fondness honeying his words. “I thought you were curious. All hat and no cowboy, Morgan?”

 

Morgan, surprisingly, laughed. He slapped his thigh once, and rose only to sink to his knees next to Josiah with a grin of provocation.

 

Josiah tipped Morgan's hat off his head and propped it next to the tea tray. “Eyes down, Morgan.”

 

Morgan seemed quite ready to fight that, but bit back his challenge and looked to the suit jacket he knelt on, satisfying himself with an insouciant twist to his mouth.

 

Arthur Morgan was a rightfully proud man, with instincts earned over decades of the kind of freedom that rejected any sort of law and order. There was no one Josiah could think of with the right to own him—and no one did, because Morgan Morgan couldn't be owned, couldn't be bought and sold unless he wanted to be. He would have to be earned, not trampled.

 

Josiah could talk a man into much worse things than taking him as a lover.

 

His hand slid up and folded over the back of Morgan's neck. Morgan was rigid, muscles tight with suspicion. That wouldn't do.

 

Josiah's gloved hand massaged the back of Morgan's neck and tilted his head away to peer down at the street below. A slow morning for Blackwater, the unforeseen chill of a gray summer morning having chased the shoppers back inside. He half listened to the birdsong, ears perked for Morgan's breath, drawn slower and deeper. Morgan's muscles rolled and gave now, eased by Josiah's care.

 

Josiah turned back down to Morgan, who blinked at him sleepily. “Eyes on the floor, Morgan,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

 

Morgan licked his lips. “Is it only ever like this? You makin' folks kneel for you.”

 

“Always? Heaven forbid. That sounds exhausting.”

 

Morgan surprised them both with another chuckle. Josiah smiled warmly, safe from Morgan's too shrewd eyes, and traced his fingertips over the curl of Morgan's ear.

 

“I'm sure you know the pleasure of providing for those who are not always able to,” he explained, thinking of the family that waited for them back at camp—too many mouths and hungry bellies, more than Josiah had ever been bound to. “Is it not pleasing to be needed? To be trusted and relied on is its own reward.”

 

Josiah recognized Morgan pitching his head. Scenting him. Josiah studied the angle of his jaw and memorized it for later, when it became too much and Morgan would balk, red-faced and defensive, and never look Josiah in the eye again.

 

“What about the coat,” Morgan said slowly, “and me paying for it.”

 

“You will. You'll pay for a great deal of things for me, and do more still.”

 

Morgan considered. Josiah pressed the issue and dragged his fingers over Morgan's scalp. Morgan thawed at once, crumbling against his leg with the softest yielding sound.

 

“Don't lose your head just yet, Morgan,” Josiah teased. “We have but one more score to settle.”

 

Morgan squinted at him, but it wasn't enough to cover his inflated pupils and pink cheeks.

 

“Eyes _down_ ,” he pressed, and used Morgan's hair to drag his face parallel to the balcony. “I would never insult you with an unfair request, dear boy, so pray don't deny me without hearing me out. I want exclusive rights to you, and I intend to treat you very well for it.”

 

Morgan softened yet more against his leg, eyes hooded. He was more vulnerable than Josiah could ever remember having seen him, and felt himself glancing over the balcony, instinctively searching out danger that could have threatened that peaceful trust.

 

“I see people ask you for what they don't deserve and give you nothing for it. I prefer to give measure for measure what you offer to me. My cup is empty, dearest.”

 

Morgan thoughtlessly sat higher on his knees to cradle the chipped teapot in his big, callused hands. Josiah's thumb raked gently over the nape of Morgan's neck as he poured.

 

“It's my responsibility to keep you safe and not let you get in over your head.”

 

Morgan's head tilted, apparently unbidden, until his cheek was cupped in Josiah's gloved hand. His shoulders slumped and the lines around his mouth eased. Josiah's breath caught, finding himself on the edge of hope and fear. He'd wanted this man for so long, and the very idea that he was kneeling at Josiah's side was too significant to scrutinize.

 

“Then again,” he added, and the smile in his voice was obvious, even to himself, “maybe I needn't have worried.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

_A costly gift from a gentleman is indelicate, as having the appearance of a bribe upon a lady's affections, unless an engagement is at hand, the most binding of all intimate relations before the marriage bed._

— _The Bisbee Guide to All Matters Etiquette for Young People in Social Crises, page 41_

 

Josiah knew better than to try and goad Arthur into anything. Firstly, because the man was so easily goaded that it took most of the joy out of it, and secondly, because goading combined with Arthur's aggression did not always for a profitable end make. Goading was for Sean MacGuire, pandering was for Dutch van der Linde, and honesty was Arthur's game, even to the point of boorishness.

 

Arthur wasn't a man of subtlety, and in spite of the delicate hints he'd been giving the man all evening, he wasn't able to get any kind of private moment with the man until half the camp slept. Not one to be put off by a lack of sensibility, Josiah talked Hosea into giving him a cup of tea and sneaked away from the firelight to the gloom of Arthur's post.

 

The cherry of Arthur's cigarette blazed before he flicked it into the grass at his feet. “A fine night, Mr. Trelawny,” he greeted.

 

“Is it? I've only noticed the appalling chill.” He pressed the tea into Arthur's hands. “To keep you warm, my boy,” he murmured, pitching his voice low and leaning into Arthur's arm. The heat of him, real or imaginary, crept through Josiah's layers.

 

To say Arthur Morgan was a big man was more than an understatement. Morgan was one of the biggest men Josiah had ever seen in his life, and he moved like it. He prowled like a coyote, beholden to no one but his those he chose. To Josiah.

 

Morgan's looming curved accommodatingly over Josiah. “I'll say thank you for the tea.”

 

Josiah rewarded him with a smile. Morgan was so desperate to please that a smile could undo him easier than a bullet. True enough, Morgan looked wounded, feverish for Josiah's approval.

 

“I'll be needing a new coat soon if I'm going to keep warm,” Josiah announced to Arthur meaningfully.

 

“Trelawny, you have no less than two winter coats that I know of. 'Sides, it's only going to get warmer.”

 

Not idiocy, but willful insolence. The cheek. “I'm flattered you're so observant of my wardrobe.” Josiah pressed closer and Morgan's breath stuttered. “I don't need it. I want it.”

 

Morgan swallowed loudly. “We'll go to the tailor tomorrow. I...I can...”

 

Josiah let himself laugh in Morgan's hopeful face. “Your eagerness is noted, but I don't want your wallet tomorrow. I'm wanting for a pound of flesh.”

 

“You looking to make a coat out of me?”

 

“Nothing so droll as that. I'm sure you'll be more creative.” Josiah let himself want and let it show on his face. A glance back at camp before he pressed an urgent kiss Arthur's clavicle, salty in the summer twilight.

 

Arthur's arms were unforgiving when they clenched around Josiah. He stole one, two, five fierce kisses from his neck before Josiah pulled away and sneaked back to his tent, leaving Arthur to his post.

 

Josiah dreamed of suffocating in a stark raving dark. When he woke, his eyes opened up to his mother's old yellow sash peeking from the pocket of his overcoat, airing out on his trunk. He kept it in some pocket or other most days—it made a good charm to play with out of sight to cover his nerves. He blinked at it sleepily, listening for something—and he didn't know exactly what it was until he realized that he couldn't hear Arthur. Not an uncommon thing for such a quiet man, but still embarrassing that he was searching for it. He groomed and left his tent for a cup of coffee, and drank half before he let his eyes seek his boy out.

 

Morgan was nowhere to be found, and neither was his horse. A curious thing, as he normally set out for jobs or traveled well after Pearson set out the stew for lunch.

 

A tug on his sleeve made Josiah start. He looked down at Jack, who was peering up at him seriously.

 

“Good morning, Jack! Not getting into too much mischief, are you?”

 

“Not right now, Mr. Trelawny.”

 

“Good lad.” Josiah enchanted a bouquet of flowers from behind Jack's back and presented them with a smile. Jack happily clapped his hands.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Trelawny!” He hovered by Josiah's leg, clutching the blooms to his chest.

 

“Perhaps you can share with your mother, yes?”

 

“Yeah. Mr. Trelawny, can you get my cow from Mr. Bell? I found it on his table but I don't want to bother him.”

 

“But of course! We'll go together.” Micah was a rat-faced bully, but making fun of him would show Jack that he was good for nothing more than laughing at. Josiah scooped him up on his hip and walked in the direction of Micah Bell's tent. Jack shrank against him nervously.

 

“Please, I don't want to.” Jack leaned into Josiah's shoulder and turned his face to the ground.

 

“Is everything quite alright?” Josiah hitched Jack higher on his hip until Jack faced him, eyes sad enough to make Josiah's heart clench.

 

“He's scary.”

 

Josiah made an ungentlemanly sound. “He's a dimwit. Wait here, I'll free your friend from Mr. Bell.” Josiah blew a raspberry in Jack's ear just to hear his peal of laughter and set him back on the ground.

 

Like most of the camp, Micah was still asleep under his canopy. As he crept closer, Josiah realized that in the few weeks he'd deigned to stay in camp, he'd never seen Micah asleep. Josiah, a man who often drank alone and read in his tent into the wee hours of the morning, recalled hearing Micah muttering to himself from the direction of the fireside most nights, seemingly alone by the cinders.

 

Half of Micah's mustache was in his mouth and dark circles swelled under his eyes. When Josiah stepped closer, he snuffled once but slept on.

 

Micah Bell had come to camp some months ago, during Josiah's last leave. They had only just met two weeks ago, and Josiah had immediately decided that he was a disagreeable sort, smarter than he looked, and was not to be trifled with.

 

He found Jack's scuffed, whittled cow was on its side on the table next to Micah's bedroll. Josiah was arguing the merits of kicking him awake and discussing the perils of threatening the universally beloved and only child to the van der Linde gang's name when he noticed the bounty poster next to Jack's toy.

 

_$1000—Wanted—Dead or Alive—For Robbery and Murder—Dutch van der Linde_

 

The poster was sun-bleached and old enough that the thick paper was frayed at the corners.

 

Josiah's brow knitted and he frowned down at Micah. He drummed his fingers on the table, torn, before he scooped up the cow and spun back to Jack.

 

Josiah cleared his throat to free it of rocks before he said, “Here, little Marston.”

 

Morgan rode into camp not long after Pearson put out lunch. He hovered uncertainly by the horses. Josiah let him watch for a while before he walked over with an inviting tilt of his head.

 

“Mr. Morgan,” he said with a conspiratorial wiggle of his brow.

 

Morgan nodded, eyes flicking from Josiah to camp to Josiah again.

 

When Morgan didn't greet him outright, Josiah grinned. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

 

Morgan huffed and looked at his feet. “Lord knows I'm tryin', but I can't get much worse at this.”

 

Josiah beamed. “It's a fine day for a ride. Wouldn't you like to show me instead?”

 

Arthur sagged in profound relief. “Mr. Trelawny, come for a ride with me?”

 

“Capital. Saddle my horse, I'll be back.”

 

Josiah whirled back to his tent, valiantly fighting the affection that warmed him. Josiah fixed the pomade in his hair and the wax on his mustache. He forced himself to anticipate nothing—hopefully nothing would surprise him.

 

As they rode, Arthur was nervous enough that Josiah was impressed with his horse for not bucking him for greener pastures. Josiah gentled his looks and his his words, gossiping about Pearson's letters to his family and Marston's stabs at fatherhood. He led them to the crossing of the Upper Montana River and spun his horse to Arthur's until they stood side by side.

 

Arthur breathed easier here. He was a wandering kind, too wild even for camp some days. Josiah smiled at the the comparison and let Arthur take his time. He longed to ford ahead and force Arthur's hand, but if Arthur could bend, Josiah could wait.

 

“I'm not sure if this is what you wanted,” Arthur admitted, and lifted a hand to cup Josiah's jaw, almost alarming him at the sudden affection. His thumb stroked idly across his cheek. “All I know is that I don't want to disappoint.”  
  
Josiah couldn't remember ever seeing Arthur so nervous. He let his voice become the gentle thing that Charles' did when he was taming wild horses. “Why don't you leave that for me to decide.” He turned his head to kiss Arthur's thumb, eyes fixed on his.  
  
There came a sharp intake of air above him, and Morgan swayed in the saddle, pressed his forehead to Josiah's with a nuzzle that dazed him.

 

Josiah smiled and ran his hands up and over Morgan's chest. “Show me what you did for me, Arthur,” he urged.

 

Morgan hummed and untucked his old coat from where it was slung over his horse's rump. He peeled back the lapels to reveal a roll of a glossy charcoal pelt. He imagined cocooned in it, wrapped up in a shield of Arthur's making.

 

Arthur shifted his weight uncertainly. His mouth worked, formulating excuses, and Josiah smiled and slid his fingers across the fur.

 

It was surprisingly thick, with short, soft hair. It was so black that it looked almost blue when the light caught it.

 

“It's perfect, Arthur,” he murmured. He lifted it to his cheek and petted it across his cheekbone.

 

When he looked up again, Morgan was smiling in relief.

 

“You did so well, dear boy. You make me so happy.”

 

A low noise crooned out of Morgan's throat before he bit it of shyly. He looked away, hiding his face under the brim of his hat.

 

“With your permission,” Josiah said, and tilted Morgan's face back to his with two fingertips under his jaw, “I'm going to take advantage of you.”

 

Morgan nodded slowly, eyes wide.

 

Morgan seemed surprised when Josiah steered his horse away from Blackwater. Josiah had known Dutch to take company, Morgan included, on his trips to his man in town, but Josiah cared more for his own more selective tailor in Thieves Landing.

 

“What are we doing here?” Morgan asked.

 

“Taking advantage of you.” Josiah gave him a wink.

 

“This ain't exactly what I had in mind,” Arthur intoned, but climbed off of his horse and hitched her next to Josiah's in front of the unassuming store front.

 

“What precisely did you have in mind, my pet? Perhaps this is too public for you if you intended to be my dirty little secret. Did you expect to be publicly ignored until I was ready to use you?”

 

“Holy Christ,” Morgan gasped. His hands made an unbidden, sudden jerk toward Josiah until he diverted them deep in his own pockets. His eyes darted frantically across the all but empty street.

 

“Really, my boy, I'm surprised. I thought you knew me well enough to see that I'd only be satisfied when I've made a proper spectacle of you.”

 

Morgan made a high, desperate noise. Josiah spun back to the door of the shop before Arthur's big hand on his elbow stopped him.

 

“What are you going to do?” Arthur breathed. His strong fingers were creasing Josiah's coat.

 

“I'm going to bloody well enjoy myself. Now get my pelt.”

 

Josiah let the door close behind him as Arthur fetched his kill. Judging by the sound of humming and scissors, Moncayo was hard at work in the back. Josiah called out a greeting and inspected a vest hanging next to the window. He could have swooned at the way the rich blue caught in the half-light of Thieves Landing, but he knew Moncayo was coming and could smell weakness on a man at twenty paces. Josiah was nothing if not weak in the face of indulgence.

 

“Signor Trelawny.” The much smaller man stumped out of the back and shook his hand firmly. “How are you liking the suede gloves?”

 

“Mr. Moncayo, you dear man! They're simply lovely. You couldn't have them back for anything. How are you?”

 

“Well as can be expected for an old outlaw banished to live among these little shits. I've missed your airs, young man.”

 

Arthur creaked door open and entered cautiously. Josiah watched him take in the bright white walls and collection jewel toned treasures that lined the walls before he beckoned him over.

 

“Moncayo, meet my Arthur. He's a cherished, dear friend of mine.”

 

Arthur looked very much like he desired nothing more than to walk into Flat Iron Lake and let the water take him, but he shook Moncayo's hand with all the dignity a red-faced man could summon. Josiah preened.

 

“Forgive me darkening your door once again, but I really couldn't stay away. I have a project and I knew you'd be just the man for it.”

 

“Stop flattering me. I hope the job is this beauty.” Moncayo was eyeing the roll of fur tucked under Arthur's arm with intent that bordered on lecherous.

 

Arthur, clearly not wanting to be between the tailor and the pelt, delivered it into Moncayo's grasping fingers. Moncayo scurried to the counter and unrolled it reverently. His gnarled little hands pawed gently at the fur ceremoniously.

 

“Never have I received such a fine animal for a custom order. This was some beast.”

 

“Had I known she was such a fighter, I would've left 'er well 'nough alone,” Arthur agreed.

 

Moncayo pulled away from the prize and looked Arthur up and down. “Never have I met a hunter with two pistols.”

 

“Could you make a coat of this? I don't want it from anyone but you.”

 

Moncayo didn't even try to hide his pleasure. “Flattering me again. You caught me between seasons, so I'll do it. I can pull something together today and mail you the finished product in a week.”

 

Josiah had been worried about Arthur feeling neglected when he haggled with his tailor, but a simple hand at Arthur's waist had him going soft and still. Josiah talked over him with Moncayo about styles and cuts and treating the fur, and Arthur settled, hushed and hazy.

 

“How are you, dear boy?” Josiah asked, pulling him next to the window when Moncayo excused himself to the back to confirm that he still had his measurements. He did, Josiah was sure of it, but was grateful for a moment with his boy.

 

Arthur blinked back to himself and seemed surprised when he said, “I'm just fine.”

 

“Good. You're doing so well for me, Arthur.”

 

Arthur's shoulders sagged in relief and it was so easy to pull him in until his face was hidden in Josiah's neck, safe and dark.

 

“Good boy.” Josiah held him tight until he was supporting as much of him as he could without tipping across Moncayo's scratched, spotless floorboards.

 

“It's safer,” Arthur admitted. “Not having to talk none.”

 

Josiah hummed. He was so damnably proud of this man. He was sure he would have done anything for Arthur in that moment.

 

“You never make me feel like I'll say the wrong thing. Never have. But I can't jaw like you or Dutch.”

 

Arthur lurched away when Moncayo's work space door, hidden at the end of a dark hallway, clicked back open. Josiah debated the consequences of finding a new tailor after he had this one shot for interrupting Arthur at his most fetching.

 

When Moncayo rounded the corner with a dark shield of grey fabric over one arm, Arthur was inspecting a feathered hat ornament and Josiah was smoothing out imaginary creases in his vest. He hoisted it up, revealing a midlength, half-finished overcoat. Josiah obediently threaded his arms through. “Something like this for the base?”

 

Josiah hummed and shot Arthur his most winsome smile. Arthur looked away to hide his face, but Josiah saw his mouth tip up.

 

And then Moncayo was shoving him toward the mirror in the corner and pins were flashing in the air like raindrops. The fur was tucked and hiked up until it obediently draped over Josiah's shoulders and plunged over his lapels. Arthur's eyes tracked him through the mirror from across the room, fierce and glittering.

 

It looked wilder than anything else he owned, but no less elegant. The asymmetrical fur dangled thick across his shoulders. The coal-colored strands tickled his cheek, piled high on his neck.

 

The coat made him feel dangerous and desirable. Arthur's covetous eyes made him feel powerful. “Old friend, you've outdone yourself.”

 

“It's to your liking?”

 

Josiah canted his back to and fro in the mirror, examining his reflection deliberately. “Don't change a thing or I'll know. It's perfect.”

 

Moncayo eyed him. Josiah paid as good as he got, better even, but he had never been afraid to critique his friend's work if it didn't meet his vision or his expectations. Josiah had even been known to return a package not once, but twice if it wasn't sublime.

 

“You don't want more fur for the collar? Some dark fox, for volume, perhaps. We can certainly trade the buttons, naturally.”

 

“And you, Arthur? What do you think? Do I pass muster?”

 

Arthur startled. “I'm not exactly speakin' a master at this.”

 

Josiah clenched the sumptuous fur in his fists. “I want to hear what you think, dear boy.”

 

Arthur lifted his chin and took two, three, four steps closer. “You look very fine. You're right, it looks good just the way it is.”

 

Josiah beamed at him and nodded at Moncayo.

 

“You can bill my friend.”

 

Moncayo disappeared nod of his head, excusing himself to the back to draw up a bill of sale. The door to his workroom shut with an audible click.

 

Josiah scooped the sinfully soft, heavy fur of his collar around his shoulders and looked at Arthur with the full brunt of his fierce regard. He felt safer this way, sheltered in Arthur's labor. He felt wanted.

 

Arthur's teeth worried his lower lip until Josiah smugly petted at the fur around his neck, and then he released it when he made a quiet, wounded noise.

 

Josiah stepped his way into Arthur's space, almost into his broad chest, and asked, “Do you have any clue how hard it is to not just fuck you already?”

 

And then Arthur was pushing him into the mirror, forcing his head back and scenting into his neck, inhaling deeply and toppling Josiah's hat to the floor. Josiah shivered happily against Arthur, breathless and pleased.

 

“How did you like that, darling?”

 

Arthur hummed low, desperate and blissful. His mouth raked over Josiah's neck and Josiah panted, subsumed completely in Arthur, his scent and his warmth.

 

Josiah had never confessed his nature or his inclinations to Moncayo in the old days, but he had never made a secret of it then, full of youthful invincibility and spite. He was sure Moncayo had seen him sneak away with a mark, or sometimes even with a friend.

 

Arthur was going to be greater than those things. Arthur was a coarse piece of wood longing to be sanded and a dog begging to find a deserving master to heel—and Josiah was already more than a little mad for him.

 

Josiah found it unusually demanding to keep cool when Moncayo returned. Arthur hovered at his elbow, just far enough that he wasn't sure if he imagined that he could feel the warmth radiating from his arm to Josiah's.

 

When they returned to camp, Josiah fidgeted.

 

Arthur had been looking at him like something puzzling and something precious all afternoon, and if that wasn't the quickest way to Josiah's affection, he himself didn't know what it could be.

 

Josiah's hand lingered on Arthur's sleeve. With a command in his smile, he pulled Arthur into the trees.

 

It's too soon. He should wait until Arthur isn't looking at him with that warm, patient regard. Now isn't the time, when he feels weightless and ardent.

 

 _If not now,_ he wonders, and thinks of the gunslingers and outlaws led to the gallows before Dutch could spare them, _when?_

 

He unties Arthur's black bandana gently. The fabric is faded and thin from age and sunshine. Josiah wants to scold Arthur for risking his identity, but his mouth is too dry. Perhaps he'll replace it in his sleep, no need for fuss.

 

From his pocket the yellow sash, borne across the sea in his mother's steam trunk and across the country in Josiah's pocket, is narrow enough to wind across Arthur's neck and tie in the back with a quick tug. Arthur's eyes burn bright enough to heat Josiah's cheeks.

 

 _I won't tell you,_ Josiah decided. _Not now, and if it's someday it's because you ruined me just as profoundly as I know you're capable of._

 

“Never has there been a man more determined to find mischief, but I hope this will help you steer clear of untoward trouble. My poor heart can't take it, my boy. It's only a loan, so you must bring it back yourself.”

 

When Josiah can drag his face above Arthur's chin, he was caught in the softness in Arthur's eyes he had never seen before. It warmed him, even as it made him ache.

 

Arthur made a curious sound that Josiah crushed beneath his mouth. He decided that it meant nothing—how could it, when he couldn't share the significance of it—even if his heart soared somewhere high above their camp.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_In public a gentleman should show constant attention to his intended, and neither in company nor elsewhere should he bring shame to the lady._

— _The Bisbee Guide to All Matters Etiquette for Young People in Social Crises, page 87_

 

Arthur surprised Josiah by starving his pride until nearly dusk before he marched over to where he was soundly trouncing Bill and John in a game of poker. He loomed behind him, close enough that Josiah could smell the gun oil and saddle soap he'd been toying with all afternoon while trying to distract himself from surrender.

 

“Make this your last hand,” Arthur grunted at him.

 

Josiah didn't look away from his cards. Arthur didn't know it yet, but this was Josiah's game, not his, and would behave accordingly. “Not now, dear boy.”

 

Both Bill and John stared. Bill's mouth hung open stupidly in shock. Sassing Arthur Morgan was a hanging offense.

 

“I won't have you holding me up, you sour-faced sneak,” Arthur growled. “Let's get to work.”

 

Arthur wasn't understanding. This wasn't forfeiture. This was punishment.

 

Josiah sighed and half-spun in his seat to peer at Arthur with the most tolerant look he could muster with him towering over him like a vengeful bear. He schooled his face into something that performed him praying for patience for being cursed to deal with someone so slow witted. “Arthur, I'm quite in the middle of thrashing your incompetent friends here. You can wait by the horses if you have something to say to me.” He spun back to the game. “I'll be over in but a moment.”

 

Josiah was fairly certain that Arthur wouldn't actually murder him in camp. Butchering him right next to the campfire violated camp rules, and Josiah was hedging his bets on Arthur fearing Grimshaw more than he was irritated by Josiah. Sure enough, he stalked off with a curse and thankfully missed John and Bill flushing from stifling their laughter in their hands.

 

Not entirely confident how far he could take this without Arthur running him down on horseback, camp rules be damned, Josiah only played a few more hands, just long enough to make an embarrassment of Bill and lose nearly a dollar to John.

 

Josiah didn't make a fuss in racing over to Arthur. He strolled over with a cool smile as Arthur smoked furiously against a tree, surrounded by a growing collection of pale cigarette butts. “You wanted to see me?”

 

“I'll thank you to be smart enough to get on your horse now.” Arthur's voice was low enough that Josiah bit back his guff and swept around him to his horse, already saddled. Josiah was pleased that he'd kept busy while he had waited.

 

As they rode toward Tall Trees, Josiah let the silence swing between their horses. Arthur wasn't a well-spoken man, but he was a good listener, and he depended on people like Josiah to speak when words escaped him. Josiah didn't want to give him any advantage. His temper had come back, gushing in his veins and tightening his hands. A hair's breadth of control was the only thing keeping him from snarling out something disgusting and unforgivable.

 

When they were at the cusp of the treeline, Josiah pulled Gwydion to a halt and looked out at the horizon. If he looked at Arthur, he wasn't sure what uninvited venom he'd spit.

 

“Let's get one thing clear,” Morgan rumbled. He lurched off Bo and prowled forward until he stood next to Josiah, eyes alight with fury.

 

“Oh, this ought to be good,” Josiah snapped. Morgan's hand shot out like a pit viper and gripped Josiah's stirrup.

 

“Whatever this is, whatever we do? That can't get in the way of the job.”

 

“I couldn't agree more, Mr. Morgan.” Josiah dropped down from Gwydion's back and gave him a quick slap on the rump. He nickered and trotted back to the plains, just out of earshot. Bo loped after him when Morgan didn't take his eyes of Josiah.

 

Josiah stepped toe to toe with him. “I find that quite hypocritical from a man who moved forward on a job _—my job,_ Mr. Morgan—without me. Imagine what a rank fool I felt like when I woke up this morning with half the men gone, no doubt already splitting the take on a robbery _that I provided._ ” Josiah's voice was a low hiss by the time he finished, spitting in Morgan's face. “You played me for an incompetent damnable sucker.”

 

“It weren't like that.”

 

“No? Out with it, then. Tell me what gave you the idea that you had the _means_ to bar me from this.”

 

Arthur didn't take a step back, but his face suggested that he wanted nothing more than to be anywhere but pinned under Josiah's scrutiny. “It was a fine tip,” he admitted, and hooked his hands in his belt. His breath heaved out in a huff and and he scraped his toe in the dirt. “But the men...it didn't feel right. Dutch told me last night that he wanted Micah and Williamson and Terry on it. You see where I'm goin' with this?”

 

“Illuminate me, I beg you.”

 

“It weren't safe. Hell, Micah was in there, guns blazing, before I could get my mask on. Why would I want ya in the middle of all that?”

 

“You insult my intelligence, then you insult my backbone. I may not risk my neck beating in the faces of store clerks the way you do, but I'm not a coward.”

 

Arthur scoffed. “Firstly, I've never thought of you as gutless. Don't twist my words. And secondly I'm not obliged to consult you every time I wipe my ass, Mr. Trelawny.”

 

“I never called for special treatment while we work together. Pray don't do me the indignity of pretending that your coddling is anything but an outrage.”

 

“I only wanted to look out fer ya! Why can't we leave it at that?”

 

“We're not finished because I need to work—I won't be dependent on you to parse out jobs that meet your standards. Furthermore,” Josiah rumbled, canting his chin in a challenge, “I'll be damned if I let you get away with this kind of cheek.”

 

“Josiah,” Arthur groaned. He sighed and scrubbed a hand furiously over his face with a grunt of frustration. “Give me a man and I'll make him spill his darkest secrets in a night. Give me a bank and I'll clear it out and keep my nose clean doing it. But this is beyond me.”

 

Arthur waited until Josiah met his eyes again. “I meant to do right by you and I muddled it all up.”

 

Arthur looked at Josiah hopefully. Meeting no resistance, he gingerly knelt in the dirt at Josiah's feet and cautiously cupped one of Josiah's hands in both of his own. “Forgive me, Josiah,” he croaked.

 

“And what,” Josiah whispered, “are you prepared to do to make amends?”

 

Arthur's eyes were vague in memory for a moment before they focused back on Josiah with determination. “A pound of flesh.”

 

Josiah smiled grimly. “Oh, nothing as tiresome as all that, darling. Trousers.” He dropped the word like a heavy stone in the electric air.

 

“What, here?” Arthur balked, voice high. He cast about the empty fields as if looking for a hotel he hadn't noticed before.

 

“No one here but you, me and the devil, my boy. You'll live to regret it if you make me repeat myself.”

 

Arthur scrambled for his gun belt, and Josiah dusted off a stump that was old enough to have been bleached and weathered by years of sun and rain. He sat himself down and calmed his trembling by twisting his fingers in his lap.

 

Morgan was not a man to be manhandled in any circumstances, apparently including when his pants were slumping down to his calves. At Josiah's hand on his flank, he stumbled gracelessly across his lap with a glare. He was _heavy_ and clearly knew it. He was holding himself like a man afraid to slip, one hand propping himself up, digging into the dirt. Josiah wondered if Arthur thought he was about to be shoved off for his bulk. Seeing Arthur shy was a strange state of affairs.

 

Josiah petted across his hairy legs and strong back. There was no fun to be had taking it out of a man when he was cocked like a pistol. Arthur went slack and loose under Josiah's warm hands as they slid over his scarred skin. Josiah relentlessly caressed him until Arthur sagged against his legs. Josiah's right hand quickly gripped one of Arthur's ass cheeks for one too-quick squeeze.

 

Arthur was among the most dangerous men Josiah had ever met. To feel Arthur soften under his hands was something divine. It made Josiah feel like a king.

 

Arthur sighed as Josiah's fingertips skated along the meat of his upper thigh. “Funny way to treat a man, to hold him like a sweetheart when yer about to beat him.”

 

“I have to give you something to remember your lesson, and so help me, Mr. Morgan, you will remember that I won't be disrespected. Besides,” Josiah added, giving Arthur's rump a sharp smack, “we _are_ sweethearts.”

 

Arthur spluttered some half-formed denial in a voice much higher than Josiah was used to hearing from him. Josiah's left hand shot out and shielded Arthur's mouth.

 

“I wasn't finished, boy. You'll count them out and think about how you dishonored me today. If you think I'm being unfair to you, tell me to stop.” Josiah released Arthur's mouth. Josiah couldn't see his face, but he could imagine it, and it made him shiver. He imagined the twisted grimace of humiliation—flushed and hot, he wagered, if the blush creeping down the back of Arthur's neck was anything to go by.

 

Arthur trembled and a rasp whined from his lips until his shoulders bunched up around his ears and he ducked his head. Josiah yearned to see his face, but he let Arthur have this small shelter.

 

“Do you think I'm being unfair?”

 

“No.”

 

“If this isn't what you want, then I _want_ you to tell me.”

 

Arthur's powerful back eased. “Yes, sir.”

 

The first one seemed to take Arthur by surprise. He jerked speechlessly on Josiah's thighs, body flexed and hips canted. He didn't appear to be breathing at all.

 

“I recall something about counting? I hope you haven't lost your head for numbers, or we'll have bigger problems on our hands than your lack of respect.”

 

“One, Josiah.”

 

Josiah was so hard he hurt, but he couldn't stop his smile. His heart glowed with the white-hot burn of victory. Compelling Arthur Morgan to do as he was bid was as formidable as feeding a starving wolf and letting it sleep at the end of the bed, and yet he was splayed across Josiah's lap with a slavish devotion that suggested that the only force capable of tipping him out of it was Josiah himself.

 

“Good boy,” Josiah purred, and hit him again.

 

“Lord God damn almighty,” Arthur wheezed.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“ _Two._ ”

 

Arthur was already wrecked, face hidden in his arms and sweat bubbling across his shoulders. His breath shivered out of him.

 

By the fifth, Arthur was hard against Josiah's leg. His face was buried in his arms to stifle the broken sounds that Josiah wrenched out of him. Arthur twitched and flushed as Josiah's fingers trailed over his red ass.

 

“Dear me, I wonder how you'll be riding for the next few days.” Josiah's voice was thick with greed.

 

Blow six came and Arthur sobbed out, “Shit, oh, _six,_ we're at six, can you please just—”

 

Josiah struck him again and Arthur squirmed and rocked into Josiah's leg with a wavering cry.

 

Almost blinded by the desperate lust, Josiah, rasped, “I can't hear you. Do I need to begin again?”

 

Arthur shook his head wildly before he choked out, “Seven, good God, oh Christ have mercy, _seven I said_ —”

 

Josiah breath hitched at his beautiful, wild voice and struck him again precisely in the same place as number five had. Arthur wailed and tried to muzzle himself with one of his own hands before Josiah yanked it away.

 

“Use your bloody manners,” Josiah snapped and pinned Arthur's wrist to the small of his back with his left hand. Josiah was sure that Arthur could have broken his hand in a matter of mere seconds if he wanted to, but instead Arthur's hips bucked at the restraint. A moan was dripping from his every breath, hips rolling.

 

“Mr. Trelawny, forgive me,” Arthur gasped.

 

Another crack of Josiah's palm on Arthur's ass and he yelped, “Christ alive magpie goddamn—”

 

“Not a number, boy.”

 

“Nine! Nine, oh, oh, magpie, darling,” Arthur hiccuped. He was drunk with it, fingers of his free hand tangled in the grass like an anchor. He was trembling and flushed a deeper red than Josiah had ever seen on him, but he could see the weak, hopeless smile when Arthur tossed his head like a colt.

 

Josiah scraped his nails across Arthur's red ass and he threw his head back and howled. _“Please, Josiah, fuck, anything you want—”_ His hips snapped against Josiah's thigh hard enough to rattle Josiah and make him cling to Arthur's bare, strong middle.

 

Arthur Morgan was a force of nature, unbroken. Inclement and stormy. A power beholden to no one—except, maybe someday, Josiah.

 

Mouth dry in the face of his surrender, Josiah realized all at once that he really couldn't go another godforsaken minute without seeing Arthur's face. He yanked Arthur's pants back up over his hips and manhandled his boy until Arthur was between his legs.

 

“My most beloved, my dearest, you did so well.”

 

Arthur whimpered brokenly and lifted his head blearily to Josiah. Josiah cupped his face in his hands and pressed kisses into it.

 

Arthur looked as free as Josiah had ever seen. His shoulders wilted and his head lolled happily between Josiah's hands. He nuzzled his face deeply into Josiah's palms, beard scoring against his soft hands.

 

This was Josiah's treasure. This merciless savage, a secret fortune.

 

“I want to make you happy,” Arthur confessed hoarsely.

 

Josiah smiled and pet Arthur's face. “You already have.”

 

Arthur's eyes were heavy and reverent as he turned his face to kiss at Josiah's hands. He hummed blissfully, catching Josiah by one wrist and pressing feathery kisses against the back of his hand. Tremors rattled up to Arthur's fingertips from his shoulders.

 

“Look at me when you thank me, boy.”

 

Arthur mumbled out hopeful little sounds against the webbing between Josiah's knuckles. He kept his eyes trained on Josiah's face, teary and fulfilled, looking for all the world like a beast tamed. Arthur's hands were iron-hot against the insides of Josiah's thighs.

 

“Do you want to come, darling? I'll let you,” Josiah purred.

 

Arthur babbled gratefully against Josiah's fingers and his hands dropped for his belt until Josiah clamped his hand in Arthur's hair and pulled his head back to the sky. Arthur growled, desperate eyes wide and unseeing at the stars. Josiah chuckled, even as his cock throbbed.

 

“Surely you don't think...? Oh, no. If you want to be a dog, my dear boy, you can rut like one.”

 

Arthur's eyes were bleary with the need of it. He moaned brokenly and rucked his fingers down Josiah's thigh, fingernails snarling against the fine weave. He heaved his hips against his leg and hissed. He twisted and ground his cock against Josiah. Arthur gasped with wet, open mouthed pants.

 

Josiah pet Arthur's hair back away from his face sweetly. His other hand traced over Arthur's fixed jaw and flushed neck as he crooned down at his boy. His own pants were painfully tight and his cock pulsed, aching. “Mr. Morgan, you sound like a cut-rate wanton.”

 

Arthur groaned and his hips lurched into Josiah with fresh hunger. He bit the back of wrist to stifle himself until Josiah pulled his hand away with a tut and laced his fingers with Arthur's.

 

Arthur arched and fucked savagely against Josiah's leg. His thrusts jolted up Josiah's whole body. Josiah's cock twitched painfully in his trousers and his free hand clapped against the side of Arthur's neck. He didn't squeeze, but his thumb cradled Arthur's tight jaw. Arthur's eyes met his, equal parts feral and grateful.

 

“So good, my darling, so good,” Josiah whispered. He kissed Arthur's forehead, and thought for a moment that Arthur might come apart then and there. He whined out and ground down, whoreish moans overflowing behind his grit teeth. Josiah slid his thumb across Arthur's knuckles.

 

“Trelawny, I need—please, fuck, let me...” Arthur cut himself off with a sobbed curse. His glassy, half-focused eyes were trained on Josiah's with an animal desperation.

 

Josiah's breath hissed out viciously. “Wretched boy, you're going to destroy me.” He huddled down, eyes boring into Arthur's. He hopelessly drank him in and nudged his forehead against Arthur's and held it there.

 

Arthur's flush deepened and his ragged breaths guttered. He fucked relentlessly into Josiah, legs spread wide and raking in the dirt. He whimpered and clawed down Josiah's thigh, eyes fixed on the face above his. The quick force of his hips clacked Josiah's teeth together.

 

“My darling, you have no idea what you do to me. Let me hear you, greedy boy. Come for me.”

 

Arthur's big hand around his crushed down and his hips stuttered. A few shuddering thrusts and then he wailed, eyes squeezed shut, warm cum trapped in his pants. Josiah clutched him close and growled out praise he himself didn't register, babbling devotion.

 

“Beautiful boy, my most beloved. You're a vision. Look at the smile you gave me, dearest.”

 

Arthur's eyes were unfocused and wet. He sagged into Josiah with a wobbly smile of his own. He slid down to settle his cheek against Josiah's thigh, panting. Josiah slumped over him and gathered him in his arms. He thought his heart might break for the fierce pride of it.

 

Arthur grabbed a handful of Josiah's shoulder and pulled him down for a slow kiss. “Nothing wrong with wanting to a nice man like you happy, Josiah,” he grunted.

 

“You are much too talented at spoiling me,” Josiah groaned.

 

Arthur gazed at him with a cavalier, pleased face that looked far too blithe for a man with cum in his trousers. Josiah's mouth quirked. He slid down to the ground, ignoring the soil under his bottom, and gathered Arthur to his chest. He rested back against the stump and buried his nose in Arthur's hair.

 

Josiah cajoled him to a hotel for the night. Arthur reached for Josiah's trousers hopefully and he _wanted,_ desperately, but rebuffed him with a kiss and a promise of more later, weak at the sight of Arthur's crestfallen face. The only thing in the world Josiah wished for more than Arthur's touch was Arthur protected and clean next to him in a legitimate, stuffed bed.

 

They split a pack of cigarettes between them on the ride and Josiah hummed praises that made Arthur hide his face underneath the brim of his old hat. It could have been Josiah's hopeful imagination, but it seemed that Arthur swayed his ass into his saddle tenderly—hopefully a telling reminder of their partnership. They parted only long enough for Josiah to claim their room while Arthur tended to the horses. Josiah sneaked Arthur in through a first floor window in the hotel and kissed him breathless against the wall the moment that he got Arthur inside. He was soundly, almost regrettably overcome, bewitched by this quiet man.

 

Josiah's sleeves got damnably wet as he washed his boy in the bath, despite the fact that he had rolled them past his elbows, sacrificing creases for protection from the bath water. Arthur was sleepy enough that Josiah wondered if he might have drowned without Josiah there, head bobbing drowsily. Arthur chuckled sleepily when he alluded to the genius of them bathing together from now on to prevent any untimely submerging.

 

“All in your best interest, my darling. Surely you can appreciate that.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Arthur mumbled. He frowned a little, clearly distressed with his need to satisfy Josiah's whims.

 

“Oh, my treasure.” And damn it all, but these trousers needed to be ironed anyway. He slid off his shoes and climbed into the bath, suds frothing around his knees as Arthur regarded him warily. He huddled down into Arthur's lap and wrapped his arms around Arthur's shoulders. “You did so well for me. I couldn't be more proud of you.”

 

Arthur rumbled a low sigh and tipped his forehead into Josiah's chest. His soapy hands clutched at Josiah's waist with stubborn tenderness.

 

“If I didn't adore you, I wouldn't punish you.”

 

“Is that right?”

 

“Too true.”

 

“I'd hate to see what would happen to me if you loved me, then,” Arthur rumbled, and raised his head to give him an amused, too-shrewd smirk.

 

Josiah's mouth went dry and his silver tongue felt too thick in his mouth. He huffed and splashed Arthur in the chest. “Mangy cur.”

 

Arthur only chuckled and pulled Josiah down to his chest.

 

Working with Arthur was like swimming in piranha-infested waters with a bloody nose. Loving him would be a whole greater peril, it seemed.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_The suitor must always treat his bride-elect with the utmost respect, unto the pain of his own personage, not curbing oneself to carrying the burdens or sacrificing his constitution for the sake of the lady._

— _The Bisbee Guide to All Matters Etiquette for Young People in Social Crises, page 17_

 

Josiah woke with the sun—the late afternoon sun, like a proper rake, thank you very much—to find Arthur gone and Gwydion fed with a coat brushed to a proud gleam. Arthur had taken to that, along with a few other things that kept Arthur on Josiah's mind.

 

Arthur picked up his post in the mornings and polished his shoes at night. He lit Josiah's cigarettes and had even once, memorably, held Josiah's umbrella over his head in a sudden summer downpour when they had been in town for lunch. And Josiah, for his part, sometimes felt a little overwhelmed by how quickly he was unquestionably falling for the man.

 

“He's out on the Mazur job,” Tilly told him over coffee.

 

“Alone? I had thought him to be smarter than all that,” Josiah said before he could ask who she meant.

 

“He took Sean with him.”

 

“Is that supposed to defend his intelligence? Good heavens.”

 

Tilly smiled wanly. “I'm sure you don't need to worry,” she said, cryptic as a cloudy day, and fed the chickens.

 

Josiah was entertaining little Jack with card tricks when Sean returned. Dutch strode up and clapped Sean on the back when dismounted with a showman's smile.

 

“Behold, I come back with Mazur riches!” he crowed.

 

Josiah could feel a nosebleed coming on. He missed Arthur.

 

Josiah held his tongue until after Sean had Karen on his lap and had shared his taller and taller tale three separate times to the same audience.

 

“I trust you didn't have any trouble, Mr. MacGuire?” Josiah prodded.

 

“No more than usual, Mr. Trelawny! Thought Arthur would bite me head off when I _gently suggested_ that we use more explosive means, but you know how he is. You'd think he'd see reason!”

 

“Your train clearly runs on a different set of tracks than his, MacGuire. Some might say a different set of tracks than most people altogether, but I think that's unfair,” Josiah smirked.

 

Josiah pressed four more beers into Sean's hands before he felt a prudent time had passed and Sean's judgment was hazy enough to ask where Mr. Morgan had disappeared to.

 

Sean stared blearily down the bottle to the beer dregs that sloshed feebly at the bottom of the bottle. “Off'n ta town. Don't ash me whur.”

 

“Good lad. Have another.”

 

“'Lways liked ya, magic man.”

 

Josiah saddled Gwydion and trotted him on the empty road in the direction of Blackwater with an outward calm, despite the tightness in his gut. Josiah was considering waiting for him at their favorite table in the saloon—no matter if it was taken, Josiah could talk a man off a fine nag and onto a mule—until he saw Arthur Morgan waiting for him at the crest of the hill just out of sight of camp.

 

Josiah looked him up and down as he trotted up. Arthur was certainly in one piece, but virtually vibrating with excitement, despite a splash of blood dyeing one of his sleeves brown.

 

Josiah had hardly pulled Gwydion to a stop before Arthur was lifting him out of the saddle by his waist. Josiah stiffened, quite opposed to being swung about like a child, but Arthur's brutal kiss stifled his protests into a long, low whine.

 

Arthur set him down firmly enough to clack Josiah's teeth. Arthur's smile was dangerous and eager. “I have something for you,” he intoned, and crowded into Josiah's space.

 

Josiah sighed happily and breathed in the smell of leather, saddle soap and tobacco. “Promises, promises. Did you miss me, boy?”

 

“Somethin' awful I did.” Arthur listed his head into Josiah's hair and inhaled deeply, but kept his hands to himself. Josiah wished he wouldn't have.

 

Arthur was warm enough to burn Josiah clear to the bone. “Congratulations on resisting the urge to kill Sean MacGuire on one more job,” Josiah murmured, and nuzzled Arthur's forehead with his own.

 

“It don't come easy. Josiah, I want to give you yer gift. Are you stalling?”

 

“Are you rushing?”

 

Arthur groaned and lipped at the shell of Josiah's ear. Josiah shivered tellingly, and felt Arthur smile against his skin.

 

“Forgive me, I didn't realize this was a race. Very well, you may give me my present.”

 

Arthur scrambled, both hands thrusting into his satchel and pulling out a stack, a genuine heap of bills. He pressed them into Josiah's hands, cheeks pink and eyes bright.

 

Josiah counted the money, and then he counted again. There was a full share here—Arthur's full take—but there was more besides.

 

“Is this from the gang's share?” Josiah asked.

 

“Course.” Arthur said it like it wasn't the kind of treachery that got a man killed. Like it wasn't a spit in the face to Dutch van der Linde himself, pied piper to the lost little outlaw he had been.

 

Josiah stepped closer until nothing more than a needle's breadth was between them. “You gave Dutch your word.”

 

“I'd rather give it to you.”

 

This was Arthur's declaration—Josiah was more important than the gang, more important than anything in Arthur's world. Josiah whined, breathless and hot in his throat and pulled Arthur in by his bandana. Arthur didn't even wobble, but arched over him and slid his tongue against Josiah's mouth.

 

“Magpie.”

 

“Yes,” Josiah gasped into his lips, and moaned as Arthur's hands clutched for purchase at his hips.

 

Josiah pinned his face close, one hand knotted in his bandana and the other clenched around the money. “So good for me,” he slurred against Arthur, embarrassingly incoherent. “Yes, Arthur, you did so well.”

 

Josiah felt drunk with the gift of Arthur's deference. Arthur's hips stuttered and he groaned happily.

 

“Tonight,” Josiah pleaded, “please come to me tonight.”

 

Arthur groaned his assent, and Josiah could have flown.

 

Spending the rest of the afternoon at camp was its own sort of torture too cruel for Josiah to contrive. Arthur flitted at the edge of his vision as the hours inched along, chopping wood and seeing to his horse. Arthur ate stew next to him that night, and his arm burned maddeningly next to Josiah's.

 

After dinner, Josiah caught Arthur and Dutch speaking in low voices at the edge of camp. Micah Bell sat in earshot, whittling and squinting from camper to camper. Josiah ducked into his tent.

 

Josiah was a man maintained by habits. Like any modern gentleman, his routine included a visit his barber every third day, a cigarette after breakfast, and always helping a lady out of a carriage. The most private of these habits was his routine of staying up late, sometimes late enough to watch the sky blaze from blue to gray to pink at dawn, drinking or reading or drunkenly reading in the snug, quiet dark.

 

It was this habit that allowed him to hear the heavy footsteps tracking across the camp at half past three.

 

Josiah perked his ears and set his whiskey aside with a quiet slosh. He boozily wracked his brain. Pearson had fallen asleep hours ago, and Karen had taken a room in town that night. Sean was keeping watch, which meant he would have fallen asleep an hour ago and wouldn't wake until Williamson kicked him conscious when he came for his shift at dawn. The only other person who would be awake and this hour would have been Micah, who was hard to find sleeping at all. When the footsteps skewed course in the direction of his tent, he brightened his lantern and swayed to his feet, admirably steady for the liquor.

 

Arthur Morgan was hovering in front of his tent, hat in his hands like a nervous bridegroom.

 

“Lemme in, yeah?” he croaked. His eyes gleamed with green fire and flitted between Josiah's chin and shoulder.

 

Josiah pulled him in by his wrist and tied the flap shut behind him. “It's a bad business, being up before the sun.”

 

Arthur tipped into his chest. Josiah felt a warm, hopeful rush. He felt _chosen_ and undeserving. The responsibility of looking after this man loomed and Josiah, so often beholden to no one and unwilling to be kept, looked forward to it.

 

 _You are merely lucky_ , a shrewd voice whispered, _and a wise man takes advantage of undeserved luck for as long as possible._

 

Josiah hummed soothingly and pet Arthur's sleep-mussed hair.

 

Arthur chuffed a short, hard breath. “Bad dream.” His voice was flat and hoarse.

 

“Oh, Arthur,” Josiah said tenderly. “To bed with you, darling, I'll follow.”

 

He couldn't have found it in him to be angry at Arthur for not coming to him earlier if he had tried.

 

Arthur kicked off his boots and curled up on the cot, smaller than Josiah had ever seen him. Josiah lowered the lantern's fire once more and stored his whiskey back in the drawer under his wash basin (nearly dropping it with a stuttered curse).

 

Josiah hid under the heavy, silky blankets next to Arthur and heaved him on his own chest with bitten back groan of effort. Josiah was no weakling, but Arthur was as burly a man as he'd ever known.

 

Josiah knew that Arthur would have cut out his own tongue before he ever obliged someone his burdens, so Josiah pressed him gently, fingers caught in his hair and shirt.

 

“Dutch took me in when the whole world was against me. He's more than a friend, more than a father.”

 

Josiah murmured encouragement when Arthur chewed his lip in regret.

 

“He taught me more about the world than anyone. What kind of rat am I if I turn my back on him? Ain't worth the rock in his shoe if I go against that.”

 

“For pity's sake, Arthur Morgan, if you utter one more disrespectful remark about a man I hold in the highest regard, you will deeply offend me.”

 

Arthur canted his face deep in Josiah's chest and panted until Josiah squeezed him tightly. He understood all at once—whether Arthur's dream was really a dream or something imagined staring at the canopy of his tent in the dark, it haunted him. Josiah would have gambled that tonight hadn't been the first time that images of failing his family had kept him up at night.

 

“I never wanted to pitch myself against the gang for your regard.”

 

“You never needed to ask,” Arthur mumbled, and lifted his head to peer at Josiah in the dark. “I have only one master.”

 

Josiah jerked. Shivered. Arthur sounded lost and Josiah's heart ached with the bittersweet admission. That wouldn't do.

 

“I would risk everything for you, my darling. And for all that you've given for me, you are my greatest treasure.”

 

Arthur cleared his throat mournfully. “Ain't that just the way.” Arthur's voice was throaty, caught between two poles of emotion.

 

Josiah peered at Arthur's face in the dark, brows gathering. Then, with a quick breath, he flung himself on Arthur's mercy.

 

“It's only love, dearest. Even if this sort of thing doesn't happen every day.”

 

Arthur was too still, and then his face pressed into Josiah's neck and breathed him deep. Josiah's head lolled, weak under Arthur's attention. Arthur cut off a vulnerable, hopeful noise in his chest, and Josiah thought he might have died for the luminous bloody joy of it.

 

Josiah awoke to Arthur's callused hand cradling his left wrist and something grazing against the inside of his left forearm. Josiah sighed and opened sleep-gummy eyes.

 

Arthur was sitting on the edge of his cot with Josiah's arm over his lap. He was scrawling something over his arm. The pen's thorn dragged gently over the spongy firmness of his skin and tendons, and Arthur was so delicate that it didn't even tickle.

 

Josiah lifted his free hand to pet the frown lines next to Arthur's mouth with his fingertips. Arthur's eyes smiled down at him.

 

“It's too early to be so serious, pet,” Josiah whispered.

 

Arthur bared his teeth and Josiah chuckled. With a sluggish groan, he craned his head off the pillow to look at his arm.

 

“I didn't realize you were an artist,” Josiah croaked, and stared.

 

“Ain't I just a wellspring of curiosities,” Arthur deadpanned.

 

It was unmistakably the two of them, back to back—Morgan's ramrod straight and challenging and Josiah's sagged back against it. Arthur's neck bore Josiah's sash, and Josiah was wearing Arthur's godforsaken old hat. The black ink swept confidently up to his elbow, marked with the familiarity of practice. They made a fine pair, but Josiah was silenced by the skill of the art until Arthur made a sound of frustration and butted his brow down into Josiah's until it rested back on the pillow.

 

“Don't be like that, Morgan,” Josiah grunted, once he found his tongue. “Let me see, I beg you.”

 

“Later,” Arthur muttered, and nuzzled his face into Josiah's. “I waited all damn mornin' fer ya. Was afraid I was gonna hafta call someone. Ya sleep like the dead, boss.”

 

“Boss? I like that. Will you call me that in front of Dutch?”

 

Arthur's smile faded at the name, and Josiah forced his eyes away, unable to bear the darkness that crept over his face. Josiah kissed his cheeks until Arthur finally spoke.

 

“Mary-Beth was talkin' to Tilly about all the choices we make that make the world keep spinnin'. I can't help but think this all might've been easier if we'd had our druthers,” Arthur mumbled.

 

Josiah considered that world, where he could be a good man and Arthur could be an honest one. They would have met in hotels and kissed behind Arthur's hat without the burden of bounties and family and nooses.

 

“Arthur,” Josiah began, and then wondered if he should. Then, “I might have loved an untroubled Arthur Morgan with careless ways and no need for a gun on his hip. Perhaps, but I doubt it. I can say with certainty that I _do_ love the Arthur Morgan I have. I love him because he has suffered and endured, and listens to the grievances of his friends because he keeps his own silent every day. I know I'm a bit of an odd fish and not many men share my taste in this, but that is my mind on the matter.”

 

Arthur's eyes were conspicuously bright by the time Josiah was done. Arthur gave him a fierce, pursed kiss and growled a clumsy thanks into his mouth. Josiah saw Arthur's hands tremble and dragged him close and held him tight.

 

“I'm bloody well keeping you as long as you let me, my boy.”

 

Later, Arthur was embarrassingly kiss drunk while he played dominoes with Abigail. She teased him about his lack of attention, and he affectionately said it wasn't her fault. Hosea muttered over his book that clearly all the summer sunshine was going to his head.

 

Josiah sat by the fire, feeling a little too loose. He had a book in his lap, but he was sure he hadn't taken a word of it in for the past hour. The boar stew was excellent, the breeze was superb, and Arthur Morgan was close enough to watch over, and would be for the near future.

 

“Is that what they're calling it these days?” Micah taunted, inches from Josiah's back.

 

Josiah held back a yelp, but only just. He whirled on Micah with a rude curl on his lip.

 

“Perhaps you have a suggestion on where Morgan might have left his daft mind?” Josiah challenged, voice oily and candied.

 

Micah slurped loudly on his stew and sucked at the spoon with a sound that made Josiah's stomach heave.

 

“Thought it was your job to look after that kind of thing.” Micah grinned wickedly, and Josiah saw red.

 

Like lightning, like a diving falcon, Josiah's penknife could have flashed in his hand. Even a quick draw like Micah wouldn't have had a chance.

 

No more than ten feet behind him, Jack was making a flower crown for his mother. Just on the other side of camp, Arthur was happier and more at home than Josiah could ever remember seeing him.

 

 _Arthur Morgan is a good man_ , he wanted to say, _and you are yet nothing but a sleeve for my fucking knife._

 

Josiah's skin itched to be elbow deep in Bell blood.

 

Instead, he said, “There's a rat,” and looked down into Micah's stew bowl, where he'd conjured his present.

 

Micah blinked, face purpling, until he followed Josiah's eyes. He stared, until he caterwauled and dropped the bowl as if it had burned him. The stew splattered over Josiah's shoes and the rat scampered into the fields.

 

“Never again presume to be disrespectful to something of mine. When you're ready to deal like gentlemen and spare me your dimwitted lies, come find me.”

 

Perhaps Josiah didn't have a leg to stand on. Modern gentlemen didn't behave like animals when their sweethearts were mocked, and yet he had wanted nothing more than to pull a knife on a man for the scantest of implications about Arthur.

 

Arthur, hair sandy in the sunshine, frowning pleasantly at his growing hoard of dominoes. Josiah's heart gave a little.

 

Josiah scooped up little Jack on his hip, who shrieked a peal of laughter. He marched them over to Abigail and Arthur, and they both greeted Jack, the little bandit prince. Josiah laid his hand warmly on Arthur's shoulder.

 

He would share Micah Bell's suspicions later. For now, he timidly took in Arthur's half-smile and felt something unclench from his chest that had been wound tight for too long.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_The gentleman retains an advantage should he not give his best impression at first, and to unfold gradually the adornments of his character, making some new and favorable impression if possible at each interview._

_—The Bisbee Guide to All Matters Etiquette for Young People in Social Crises, page 14_

They day was hot enough without the extra lantern and candles in Josiah's tent, but Arthur had argued that he needed the light. Josiah held his tongue and kept his brow from knitting. He'd asked for this, and Arthur had finally relented. He wasn't going to let a little sweat tickling his back end this before it began.

 

Arthur seated him on a chair and folded himself up on the ground in front of the tied down flap like a guard. “Haven't drawn anyone and had them know about it for years,” Arthur muttered. He sharpened his pencil and eyed Josiah under his lashes. “Don't know how you want it done.”

 

“I once sat for a tintype in a horrid boardwalk hut in Atlantic City. There's little you could do that wouldn't be seen as an improvement.” Josiah dithered and glanced about his tent. He hadn't thought of how accommodating Arthur would be, and wished that he'd been more prepared. He'd wished he'd had a vision that he could direct Arthur with. He was so sincerely good at pleasing Josiah. He was overwhelming.

 

Having Arthur in his tent was common enough, but Arthur looking at him askance over his journal made Josiah look at his little home with fresh eyes. There was a thick, sturdy cot, a cedar trunk, a wash stand, a coat rack, and Josiah's own chair. Worlds away from his assorted flats and cottages. Not much in the way of home comforts, least of all up to his standards of leisure, but it did in a pinch when he was spending time at Dutch's heels. In his day, Josiah had more than once laid his head down in places not even rats would run to.

 

And there was Arthur, sitting in his dirt-floor hovel, as if he were simply thankful to be there. As if he would always be happy close to Josiah, whether it was a hut at the edge of a bandit camp or Josiah's own grand Mexican villa.

 

Josiah's heart grew a little lighter at the thought of Arthur always being in Josiah's space. Safe in his orbit, close to his soul.

 

This tent was where Arthur came when Josiah called for him, but it was also the place where Arthur smoked after lunch, or drank his coffee in the morning, or held Josiah too tight after his own nightmares. This was where Arthur cleaned Josiah's gun and saddle, or straightened the sheets because Josiah couldn't be bothered but damn it if Arthur didn't know how he loved falling into a made bed.

 

Inspired, Josiah set to making a nest of Arthur's invention. He pulled the chest forward and propped it open at his feet, revealing brocade waistcoats and silk ties, stolen for him at gunpoint or looted on train cars. He unpacked and unrolled paintings plundered from stagecoaches. From his trunk he pulled thick, gleaming furs and pulled them close, draping them over himself and the back of the chair—Arthur had delivered these pelts to his arms, pulled from fearsome, distant animals. More and more treasures he pulled close—from a rare orchid at his feet to a raw, dark ruby cupped in his hands—until he was surrounded in Arthur's gifts.

 

Josiah fussed and poked everything in place until Arthur prompted, “Ready, magpie?”

 

Josiah squinted at him. Arthur's mouth was slightly parted, but he closed it with a clack when he noticed Josiah's scrutiny. Nothing in this world could inspire more mischief than Arthur's attention.

 

“One more thing, dearest.” He propped the ruby in his lap and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. Arthur's breath stuttered when his marks from before were bared. The ghosts of ink wound over his inner arm, stark against the sunless flesh, still there from when Arthur had marked him in his sleep days ago. He braced his arm against the back of the chair, and the residual marks couldn't have been missed.

 

Josiah rolled the stone between the fingers of his other hand. Arthur cleared his throat and tucked his head down to his journal.

 

“There for anyone to see, darling.”

 

Arthur chewed his lip.

 

“What can that mean?” Josiah's voice dripped sarcasm.

 

Arthur let out a shaky breath and let his pencil float over the journal. He steadied himself, sketching the air above the page, until suddenly he was drawing Josiah's likeness.

 

Sweat tracked down Josiah's back and behind his knees. Arthur's eyes tracked from Josiah back to his work. He frowned in concentration, and Josiah realized that Arthur was nervous.

 

He wanted to interrupt and pull Arthur to him. He wanted to reassure Arthur that he had never failed him, that he had always been touched by Arthur's regard.

 

But the night was young, and later Josiah would lavish Arthur with ardor until he broke away, so easily ruined.

 

“Eyes on me,” Arthur muttered.

 

Josiah bit back a smile and obeyed.

 

Outside the tent, crickets sang and songbirds croaked. The camp was quiet, dug in for the night, except for the distant sounds of Karen and Javier drunkenly chatting, too loud for the stillness. Inside the tent, close to two dozen bare candles and two lanterns guttered. Josiah watched Arthur ponder the jut of his clavicle, only partially hidden under Josiah's half buttoned shirt.

 

Arthur's pencil scraped and whorled. Josiah's world grew smaller and yet smaller, until it was just his eyes on Arthur, Arthur's eyes on him, and the journal between them. Squirming never even occurred to him.

 

At first it had been a flurry, Arthur's hand unstoppable for love or money, making broad sweeps and confident lines. Now his hand had slowed to small flicks and Arthur tapped the end of his pencil to the page more than he drew with it.

 

The tip of Arthur's pencil was flickering, barely touching the page, when he said, “Micah came back to camp today. Just in time for dinner. First time since the rat thing.”

 

Josiah's face darkened and his hands clenched his palms ached from the cut of his nails. “What did he say,” he spat.

 

“Not a damn thing. Stop moving.”

 

Josiah huffed in annoyance. “Am I to believe that Micah Bell held his tongue for the first time in his miserable life?”

 

“I know you ain't callin' me a liar,” Arthur snapped, “but say that again and I'll settle it like ya did.”

 

Josiah flushed and steadied himself. “Forgive me, you don't deserve to be spoken to that way. How ghastly.” Josiah gave him a brittle smile.

 

Arthur gazed at him, eyes troubled. “Josiah, what did ya _say_ to him?”

 

Josiah looked at the tent flap and considered the likelihood of hotfooting his way to the horses before Arthur dragged him back by his ankles, damnable man.

 

“Josiah Trelawny, you answer me.”

 

“I may have sent him a letter reminding him that all of us have a common goal, and that he is not yet so great in Dutch's eyes as he thinks. I may also have implied that any attempts at destroying your reputation would be taken as a personal slight to myself.”

 

Arthur gaped. Josiah had never seen Arthur look so genuinely struck before, and decided that it didn't suit him.

 

“I always took you for a smart man,” Arthur said slowly, “and now I reckon that I was a mite quick to judge.”

 

Josiah ducked his head. There was no defending his idiocy, so he held his tongue and quelled his indignation. Arthur was right.

 

“What kinda fool reasoning made ya think that was goin' to help at all?”

 

“I wasn't thinking much at all,” Josiah confessed. Micah Arthur's threatening Arthur's security had blinded him to anything but Bell being silenced. “I'm sorry, my boy. I'm afraid you turn me into a rank idiot.”

 

“I don't trust 'im worth a damn.”

 

“Arthur, I trust very few people here. If it weren't for you, I really wouldn't stay.”

 

Arthur flinched, and then narrowed his eyes, face stony. “You'd leave the gang?”

 

“No, but I certainly wouldn't sleep next to them.”

 

Arthur scoffed. His jaw worked, and a muscle in his arm flexed angrily. With a heaved breath, he argued, “I don't trust everyone. But I really don't think him stayin' is in the best interest of the gang. Ain't just cause I don't like him none, either.”

 

Josiah closed his eyes musingly, and opened them again. “I found a bounty in his tent not long ago. Dutch, wanted dead or alive. I'm naturally a little disappointed in you boys at the modest reward.”

 

Arthur studied his face, and his features seemed sharper in the candlelight. Josiah remembered the last time he'd seen such a look on Arthur's face—nearly a year ago now, his hand on an informant's neck as he decided whether or not to believe his story. Arthur was many things, but Josiah had never doubted his ability to read a man better than anyone he knew. He was insulted to be on the end of such a look, but he had failed Arthur once and wouldn't tempt fate again by challenging such an examination.

 

Arthur's hands clasped and released. “I'm done scoldin' ya,” he muttered eventually. “Yer gonna help me fix this.”

 

“Anything,” Josiah pledged, and Arthur turned back to his work. Josiah left all his heart in his eyes, and Arthur's shoulders came down from his shoulders and his crow's feet softened.

 

“Done,” Arthur announced shortly. He flipped the page quickly and scrawled something over the back.

 

Josiah rolled his shoulders and smiled at Arthur's hesitancy. His jaw was set and he folded his arms instead of offering his journal.

 

“What now, Morgan? Has my lion turned into a lamb?”

 

Arthur snorted. “Don't much like the idea of disappointin' you is all.”

 

“Arthur, it's you. How could I be disappointed?”

 

Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face.

 

“You've never failed me, my boy. You're my treasure.”

 

Arthur huffed and Josiah set aside his furs and finery to crouch down in his lap. Arthur hid his face in his chest and breathed deep. Josiah couldn't find it in himself to be shy about his sweat when Arthur scented him like he was something savorous and rare.

 

Josiah hummed soothingly into Arthur's hair. “You're a delight, dear one. But you must learn to share.”

 

Arthur kissed him instead. He kissed Josiah like he owned him, licking into his mouth and wrapping his arms around him. He brushed a truly insufferable amount of kisses against Josiah's mouth and didn't stop until Josiah was laughing and swearing against his lips.

 

“You're dreadful. Completely incorrigible.”

 

“A menace?” Arthur suggested to the skin under his jaw.

 

“Ooh, that too. Please, Arthur, show me what you made for me.”

 

Arthur pushed the journal into Josiah's hands, and Josiah dared to look.

 

From the unfamiliar angle, his scars and moles were almost unrecognizable. His hair was without product—a token protest against his pomade, disguised as artistic license no doubt—and hung in its natural dark waves. The remains of Arthur's marks on his arm were confined to hazy etches. Shadowy, messy lines traced his under eyes, but his eyes gleamed with indulgent command. Josiah's mouth was parted and quirked in a diverted sort of come hither. Arthur had put him on a throne, even if it was still a simple country chair. He was a dragon in its horde, a king in his country.

 

“I take it all back. You're a gift, my darling.”

 

“You like it, then? I could change a little here or there if you like.”

 

“I've decided, Arthur. It's completely perfect.”

 

“You could—”

 

“I suppose you're right. I could change my mind. Or the sea could swallow us all. Bugger off, it's splendid.”

 

Arthur smiled up at him fearlessly, and that smile did terrible things to Josiah's heart.

 

“Thank you, Arthur.” Josiah bent to kiss him thoroughly. He hadn't accounted for Arthur letting the journal flop out of his hands and into the dirt so he could hold him. He made a sound of annoyance against Arthur's mouth even as he twined his arms around Arthur's neck.

 

“Leave it, magpie.”

 

“I think I know what it means,” Josiah murmured against his mouth.

 

“Mm? What's that?”

 

Josiah pulled back and held out his arm, still bared up to the elbow and stained with ripples of ink from Arthur's pen. Arthur met his eyes and his challenge with a lifted brow.

 

“Don't let it vex you, dearest. I would have them all know what it means. Next time I would have it be your name.”

 

Arthur's pupils blasted open in the candlelight. He was under Josiah until he blinked and then he suddenly _wasn't_ , like lightning. Their knees were knocking and Arthur was grunting and then Josiah was hoisted on the cot like he weighed nothing more than a saddlebag.

 

Josiah beamed up at Arthur as he crawled over him, teeth bared and eyes full.

 

“Yours, dear heart.”

 

Arthur groaned like Josiah had shot him, too loud in the night. He lurched down and didn't so much kiss his bared collar bone as much as he did ravage it.

 

Josiah tossed his head against the cot and his breath hissed out between his teeth in a mad bid for silence. The night was too still, the gang too close. He hadn't planned for this tonight, but there was nothing in the world like Arthur Morgan for sabotaging his intentions.

 

Arthur's arms caged Josiah in and his teeth scraped down his chest as far as the half-open shirt would allow. Josiah arched into the drag of teeth and tightened his arms over Arthur's shoulders. He was everywhere, a canopy that could have blocked the sky, forcing a smothered cry from him.

 

“Look so good like this,” Arthur mumbled into his skin. “Shit, Josiah, always wanted you this way.”

 

Ever contrary, Josiah's hands lashed against Arthur, one hand snagging in his hair and one hand on his neck, under his jaw. Arthur hitched forward with a whine, fight in his eyes, until Josiah wrenched his head away by his hair.

 

Arthur's body tensed and trembled, eyes wide and mouth open. His hips stuttered forward into Josiah's helplessly and a soft sound of curious want croaked under Josiah's hand on his throat.

 

“You make a fine picture yourself, fucking into me like you've earned the right. You still have so much to learn.”

 

Arthur's eyes closed and his brow knit. He slammed his lips together to stop the moan before it could leave him, but Josiah felt it all the same.

 

He heaved Arthur on his back. “Stay,” he whispered against Arthur's cheek with a kiss before he lifted himself up and ransacked a drawer underneath his wash basin.

 

“What are you doing?” Arthur panted.

 

Josiah shot him a smile over his shoulder. “Making you wait.”

 

When he found the tin he was looking for, Arthur hadn't budged, even as his hands fisted in the sheets desperately. Josiah's heart swelled with pride.

 

“I knew you would,” Josiah said gently, and blanketed himself over Arthur, leaving the tin next to the pillow. Arthur bit back a sound and his hands shot up to cup the back of Josiah's head. “That's it, that's it. Such a good boy.”

 

Arthur caved into a whole body shudder. Josiah stifled his moan with a biting kiss, licking back into Arthur's mouth.

 

He clawed at Arthur's belt, snarling until another pair of hands dropped to help. Too many buckles for bullets and guns and pants that had seen better days. Josiah rucked up Arthur's still buttoned shirt until it gathered under his arm pits, high under his neck.

 

His teeth skimmed over Arthur's nipple and Arthur's hands scrabbled at his back with a gasp.

 

“Loud as a dime whore,” Josiah hushed against Arthur's ribs. One hand carded up from his shirt to muzzle him and Arthur trembled.

 

Josiah lapped and mouthed across Arthur's chest and belly. Every muscle clenched and fluttered under him. Arthur's arms twitched, caught up in his shirt and yearning to touch the way he knew Arthur always wanted to touch, needing to feel Josiah's approval until he could believe it.

 

Josiah's free hand fought Arthur's trousers down his thighs, assisted with Arthur's shimmying as his hands were too snared to help. Arthur's dick slapped down against his belly, red and already glistening. Arthur squirmed, but Josiah made a sympathetic sound low in his throat and laved a sloppy open-mouthed kiss to the head of Arthur's cock.

 

Arthur hiccuped wetly under his hand and his own hands tore feverishly at the sheets, knuckles bone white.

 

“Let me, my dear boy. I've got you.” Josiah hardly recognized his own voice, reduced to something ragged and tender.

 

Arthur shivered and kissed Josiah's fingers over his mouth.

 

Josiah freed him long enough to throw his clothes across the chair. Arthur, a damnably quick thinker, released his arms from his twisted shirt and pulled his clothes off to crumple in the dirt next to the cot.

 

He was wearing the yellow sash around his neck, hidden unless he pulled his bandana off completely. The old thing was stained around the edges now with sweat a scuff of dirt. Something fond welled in Josiah's chest, and threatened to break him when Arthur didn't untie it to fall next to the rest of his clothes.

 

Josiah knelt between Arthur's legs and hooked his fingers in the cloth. He dragged Arthur up for a starved kiss and Arthur scrambled to meet him, arms floundering until they crushed around him.

 

Arthur was gazing up at him when he pulled back, bleary and flushed. Josiah released his neck and tangled both of their hands together and rocked his hips into Arthur's.

 

Arthur sputtered a muffled swear as Josiah's dick dragged next to his, trapped in the sweaty cleft between them. He squirmed under Josiah, bucking and hands clamped. A quick flip of Arthur's would have freed him in the space of a breath, but he dutifully restrained himself. He bared his teeth and choked back a growl as Josiah lipped at his neck above the yellow ribbon.

 

Josiah furrowed his nose under Arthur's jaw and inhaled. Salt, soap, and leather—familiar and driving him to distraction.

 

“You are,” Josiah cooed, and then bit Arthur's neck to bury the words in his skin. _Delicious. Maddening. Beautiful. Mine. Astonishing. Home._

Josiah regretfully released his hands to paw for the tin. Arthur snarled in victory and grabbed for him, palming Josiah's hips and pulling him in. A yelp broke from Josiah before he could catch it, and Arthur laved his tongue broadly up Josiah's left pectoral, catching over his nipple and making him gasp.

 

“Spoiled pup,” Josiah rasped. The tin was putting up a fight.

 

Arthur chortled. “Need some help there?” he asked, too innocent.

 

Josiah gave him a thunderous glare and rocked his hips unto Arthur's. His cheeky smile dropped and his mouth softened into a quiet _ohhh._ Josiah swung slowly down against him until Arthur was panting and tearing at Josiah's shoulders. Josiah, finally, blessedly pried open the tin and slathered the palm oil between the fingers of one hand.

 

Arthur made a desperate noise. “C'mere.” He batted at Josiah's waist with an imploring look. “Ya ain't gonna leave me all alone down here.”

 

“Never,” Josiah promised. He lifted his hips away and kissed Arthur deep. He swatted the tin to the ground carelessly and reached between with his slick hand.

 

When Josiah pulled their cocks together in his slippery hand, Arthur gulped for air and nudged his cheek blindly with his lips. Arthur's voice broke and his legs shook around Josiah on the cot. Josiah whimpered and nuzzled back.

 

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Arthur breathed, and Josiah smiled openly and trembled as he dragged his hand up and down over them.

 

“Perfect,” Josiah babbled, and Arthur's hips jolted up suddenly with a bark of shy want. The warm, wet heat knocked the wind out of Josiah.

 

Josiah's free hand knotted the sheets next to Arthur's head and dropped his head down to meet Arthur's.

 

Arthur was begging, voice high and soft. Josiah mumbled praise and twisted his hand faster. They couldn't last long, not with Arthur so frantic and Josiah smothering sounds he couldn't stop.

 

Arthur gasped for breath, red-faced and used. A sound like rolling thunder drummed from his throat.

 

 _I shall be your nourishment_ , said Arthur's hands in his hair.

 

 _I will be your light in dark places_ , said Arthur's almost silent groans against his neck.

 

Then Arthur pulled him down into a hard kiss with a tongue like a spear. There was no air in the tent, no air in Josiah's lungs, and he couldn't breathe but he could kiss Arthur.

 

“Yer—oh almighty goddamn, yer makin' me—” Arthur's voice was tattered, pleading.

 

Josiah ground down hard and trapped his own moan between their mouths, and kneaded under the head of Arthur's cock with a slick thumb.

 

Arthur bucked his hips twice rapid-fire and almost unseated Josiah, but then he was pulsing and wet in Josiah's hand, biting down fiercely on his lip to stifle his sob. His cum streaked up his belly and slicked Josiah's hand with an obscene, juicy squelch. Arthur's hands on him were bruising, grinding almost to the bone.

 

Arthur—safe, wrecked, beautiful, and watching him—made him cum, and then he tripped into a well, soared into the sky, weightless, nothing but light and the scent of Arthur around him.

 

Arthur's heavy arms held him as he clenched and groaned, cumming over Arthur's belly and arching into the heat. Arthur kissed him unsteadily, and Josiah writhed, sensitive and whining.

 

Arthur's arms bracketed him and he was trembling as if a hurricane would rip them apart. Josiah gentled him with his clean hand on his cheek. He rested his weight on his elbows on either side of Arthur's head to shelter him and drooped his head to languidly kiss over his face.

 

“What's this, darling?” he panted.

 

“I don't,” Arthur began, and shivered. “Too much.” His voice was canted like a question, too fragile.

 

“I'm here,” he murmured and nuzzled Arthur's face under his own. He rode out Arthur's trembles until they waned, gentled by his fervent praises. Josiah hummed shamelessly into Arthur's hair.

 

Josiah's whispers shrank the universe to one tent. When Arthur's head lolled, comfortable and loose, Josiah pressed a kiss to his forehead and lumbered up. He pulled a washrag from next to the basin and dunked it. Even mere feet away, his skin cried to be away from Arthur. He scoured the rag over himself quickly before sitting at Arthur's side and cleaning him carefully.

 

Arthur gave him a hazy smile, and somewhere in the time between Josiah gently cleaning him and Josiah petting his hair, he fell asleep.

 

Josiah yawned and popped his neck. He flung the calico cloth on the ground and busied himself putting away his palm oil and prizes from sitting for Arthur. Josiah despaired at not training Arthur to give his own belongings the courtesy they deserved when he folded Arthur's clothes and stored them in his own trunk. He had blown out the candles and was about to turn down the lanterns when the journal on the floor caught his eye and he bit back a grin.

 

Nude as a babe, he tiptoed to the journal, and with a flick of his wrist he paged from sketches of flowers to chickens to wolves to Josiah himself. The more recent one, at least. Josiah caught a glance at his likeness more than once in the margins, across the paper, in Arthur's eyes. There was affection shining from his eyes and tokens at his feet, each lovingly charted as the last.

 

Josiah was undeniably vain, but there was something about Arthur's stare that flayed him distressingly open. One more way he was defenseless against Arthur Morgan.

 

 _From your obedient servant_ , Arthur had scrawled on the back, and then the date.

 

Arthur snorted awake behind him and growled at him to come back to bed. Josiah smiled and threw himself back on the cot, making Arthur grumble.

 

“I love you,” Josiah whispered into Arthur's muscled shoulder. “You are God's most perfect creature. Wake me up in the morning.”

 

Arthur slurred at him to shut up and go to sleep, but his face was hot enough that Josiah could feel it laying on his chest.


	6. Chapter 6

_Foremost, the position of the gentlemen is to prove he is accomplished to provide security to the lady's interests, until death do they part._

— _The Bisbee Guide to All Matters Etiquette for Young People in Social Crises, page 99_

 

Josiah knew that he wasn't precisely a good man, and someday he might have to pay for that. Notwithstanding, an hour's ride next to Micah Bell was a torture too great for any outlaw.

 

Until that morning, not a word had passed between them in weeks. Josiah had felt his eyes on him sometimes, staring over the fire and marking his time at camp. Josiah was not afraid to admit that the vigilance was giving him the familiar itch to uproot and disappear.

 

Telling Arthur as much hadn't resolved anything. They were beginning to talk in circles.

 

 _Come with me_ , Josiah begged.

 

 _Dutch wouldn't allow that_ , Arthur reasoned. He had never understood Josiah's wanderlust.

 

On and on, until Josiah fought down dreadful words and Arthur fell into his different kind of quiet, the kind that only came around when he had disappointed Josiah and Josiah couldn't admit it.

 

Josiah was sure that he didn't need to ride with Micah—why would Micah need another man with him to touch base with an old source? Micah had demurred that morning that he didn't _have a head for connections like you_. Josiah had simpered coldly.

 

Josiah hadn't even told Arthur he was leaving. Micah had simply led him to the horses, and the idea of giving Micah more ammunition against Arthur's reputation couldn't have been born. He rode away with Micah with nothing more than a look back at Dutch's tent, where Arthur was pledging his life to a man he was determined to follow for the rest of his short, accursed life.

 

Micah spat to the side of his trotting horse. “Almost there, Trelawny.”

 

Trelawny said nothing. Even if he didn't have a hope for keeping his hands loose, he kept his face imperiously serene.

 

“Just when I think I know you, you surprise me. Here I was thinking you were going to talk my ear off this whole ride.”

 

“I envy your biting wit. Why invite me at all?”

 

“Like I said,” Micah said, and turned his horse toward Quaker's Cove, “I'm just not the man for the job. You got something better to do?” His eyes glittered, and Josiah bit his tongue.

 

The pier was empty when they pulled to a stop beside it. Josiah searched for horses or campfire smoke and found neither.

 

Micah dismounted and bellowed into the storehouses, “Ned Cleary! Get out here, you son of a bitch!”

 

The only sound to be heard was the water sloshing and a bird taking flight from one of the roofs.

 

Micah swore. “Come on,” he growled. He slung a rifle over his back and strode towards the sheds.

 

“There's no one here, Mr. Bell. Perhaps your friend is somewhere fit for human company.”

 

Bell wheeled on him. “Always knew you were an idiot. Didn't mark you for a coward, too.”

 

 _Stop wasting my time_ , Josiah longed to snap, but instead threw himself off Gwydion's back.

 

They stalked between buildings. The breeze whistled through the slats in the wooden walls and the docks swayed with their steps.

 

There was a fine layer of salty grime over everything, save a few hand prints on doors and half-collapsed furniture. Josiah frowned at them, but when he brought it to Micah's attention in a low voice, he scoffed.

 

“Did you think my friend was the only kind of man that used this place for meeting? Del Lobos have been using this place for years for deals.

 

Josiah was about to argue, but they rounded the corner of the last shed, a three-walled wreck, and froze.

 

Five men waited inside. Their eyes stalked Josiah's half-step inside and his recoil at the sight of them. His stomach swooped up to his trachea.

 

“Smells like rat,” Josiah said faintly.

 

One of the men lunged at Josiah. He cried out and shrank back, fumbling for his knife. Two quick punches hammered below his ribs and he retched as his breath whipped out of his throat. A fist thudded into the side of his face and his teeth mashed down on his own tongue. The world swayed and the sound of the ocean rushed in his ears before he was thrown to the floor. A foot thrashed twice against his face, and then darkness.

 

Consciousness was, truly, a regrettable decision. A throbbing head reminded Josiah that sleep was the sensible choice, and anyone telling him differently was a consummate liar.

 

His tongue felt fuzzy and thick—too clumsy for working someone over into giving him a chance to escape. Cold needles prickled at his bound hands, trapped between his back and the wall. He was slumped in a corner like an old sack.

 

Josiah's concentration slid beyond his command, sleepy and wounded. He snapped it under control and raised wavering eyes to the room. His vision blurred queasily, but he could hazard that he was still in the shed at Quaker's Cove. He wasn't blindfolded, so they intended to silence him from sharing the identity of his captors.

 

Two man-shaped shadows blocked the sunlight. He squinted, but his head pounded and sagged back into the wall. Wiggling his fingers revealed nothing but the grain of the paneled wall behind him. There would be no untying himself, at least not in his corner. The idea of moving made his stomach lurch.

 

“O'Driscoll's boys, I presume? I do beg your pardon if I'm mistaken, but the only thing I have to go on is smell,” Josiah slurred.

 

Spurs chimed and boots thudded closer. A quick slap against his left cheek. Josiah was shocked into silence for no more than a moment.

 

“Decidedly an O'Driscoll. You reek to high heaven.”

 

“Shut your mouth, old man!”

 

Josiah barked an outraged laugh and swung his head blindly in the direction of the sneer. “Old man! Never in all my days have I been so disrespected. Let me see your face, pup.”

 

Josiah forced his eyes to fix on the face above, squinting past the afternoon light streaming through the open wall. A sprout of a man in repose before him, one more nebulously at his back. If he let Josiah see his face, he was confident Josiah wouldn't stay alive for long.

 

“Heavens above. Do you even shave yet? Does your mother know you're kidnapping old timers before supper?”

 

He earned a rabbit punch for his trouble, and his breath hissed out between his teeth to cover his cry.

 

“Leave him for Colm, Martin.”

 

The closer brat, who apparently went by Martin, whined and stepped away after a last slap on Josiah's temple. The world heaved painfully, and Josiah squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his chin to his chest.

 

Outside of his line of sight, the two man chattered and retreated back toward the outbuildings closer to shore.

 

Josiah trembled in anger, but he huffed a breath and stored it somewhere dark in his mind to sour until he and Micah met again.

 

He squirmed, sliding his jacket against his chest to feel for the weight of his knife, but there was nothing. He fought a sob of frustration. Colm wouldn't be kind to him if he stayed. If Micah had reached the law already, his name and his face, carefully protected for decades of work, would be lost to him. He despaired at what Dutch and Arthur were thinking.

 

Josiah flinched at the crack of a gun shot. A cluster of shouts, banging doors, and then more gunfire, much closer.

 

Josiah writhed against the ropes, swaying for purchase on anything that might free him, even if it was nothing more than a sharp splinter of wood. A man howled in pain.

 

Josiah cooled his breathing and thumped his throbbing head back against the wall. Panic would kill him if he let it.

 

The shooting abated. A man bayed a cough of pain before it was quickly silenced. Closer still.

 

Josiah shuffled his legs underneath him. He planted his shoulder into the wall and tried to shimmy up, but pain blinded him and stole his breath.

 

A holler soared from the other end of the cove, and then hoof beats—no more than one horse, maybe two. Heavy boots raced closer, close enough that Josiah's heart dropped to his stomach.

 

He was going to die in a New Elizabeth boat shed with his arms tied behind his back. Arthur would never learn what happened to him, and he'd simply be the latest of Arthur's lovers to abandon him. That hurt even more than the bloody sucker punch.

 

Arthur rounded the corner of the shed, a repeater in hand. Gunpowder darkened his fingertips and a splash of blood freckled his cheek.

 

A fault line in his bedrock cracked. _Arthur, Arthur._ Josiah crumbled.

 

“Son of a mongrel bitch,” Josiah wheezed.

 

The repeater clattered to the floor beside him. Arthur bolted over and cupped Josiah's face in his hands. Josiah sagged into him with a hiss of pain that turned into a weak laugh when he realized Arthur was trembling.

 

“What's this? Arthur Morgan, the ill-famed outlaw himself, shaking like a bride on her wedding night?”

 

Arthur whined like a dog and pulled him close. He squeezed him firmly, tucking Josiah's head under his chin. “You idiot, magpie, you utter God damn fool,” he groaned into Josiah's hair.

 

All at once, the relief came to Josiah. Spent from spitting in death's eye, he sighed and curled into Arthur, weightless. “Yes, it's true. I'm quite the fool.” It was quicker to agree with Arthur when he was this way, he recalled distantly. Anyone, even Hosea, had a time breaking down that focus. He felt light as a ghost, even as Arthur gulped for air against him.

 

Then Arthur's arms circled tighter around him. Josiah obediently stilled himself as Arthur sawed the ropes away from his chapped, bloody wrists. He tucked his head soundly into Arthur's jugular, panting in his familiar scent like it was the first time—warm musk, leather, and salt.

 

“Where are you hurt?” Arthur didn't pause for a breath to listen. He stabbed his knife into the floor and patted Josiah down, cataloging every bruise and scrape with a deadly eye.

 

“They're getting away, darling.”

 

“Where are you fucking hurt?” Josiah had only ever heard Arthur use that voice before the click of a hammer locking, before blood. He was shivering like a plucked harp string.

 

“Hush, pet.” Josiah's hand cupped under Arthur's jaw and he caught his eyes in his own. “I'll keep for now, but the O'Driscolls will be out of our hands if you don't track them now.”

 

Arthur's eyes slid away, but only so he could press his forehead against Josiah's in an animal nuzzle. His breath billowed out of him, and Josiah heard a growl hiding in his throat. “May I kill him?”

 

“We need one alive to take to Dutch.”

 

With an annoyed grunt, Arthur pulled him in by his shirt for a hard kiss that was as needy as it was tender. Josiah hummed soothingly into Arthur's mouth, quite certain that Arthur was memorizing his kiss. Affection soothed the hard line of his shoulders at the idea. He pushed back with one last firm, closed mouth kiss.

 

“Keep that knife and stay off the road. No fires. I'll be back soon.” His words were bitten off like a shotgun blast. Arthur released him for his repeater and fled the dock. Josiah heard a creak of saddle leather and then Arthur made a feral sound, cut off by thundering hoof beats. Then there was stillness, only the sound of the water to compete with Josiah's gasps for breath.

 

Josiah was trembling too much to walk steadily, but he suspected that once the nerves from the gunfight died off he wouldn't be able to walk at all, so he forced his legs to carry him out of the shed. Arthur's knife went into his waistband. He staggered forward and shielded his chest with his folded arms, bloodied wrists bared to the world.

 

Josiah picked delicately over Arthur's carnage, careful not to step in anything that would leak into his shoes. He found a clay pitcher of water undisturbed in one of the boathouse kitchens and poured it over his head with a shudder. Autumn was here, and the chill would return soon if Arthur didn't.

 

Josiah considered sifting through the slaughter to find his penknife in the meantime, but a quick glance at an ashen face made him decide against it. He dragged a chair out from an outbuilding and wheeled it to the edge of the dock. The scrape of wood breaking the silence made him cringe. He collapsed in the seat and let his head dangle to his shoulder while he waited, too tired to sleep in the tomb of Arthur's making.

 

When Arthur returned, it was with a second horse trailing behind Bo. An unconscious boy with blood matted hair was bound and slung over the strange horse.

 

 _For you_ , the set of Arthur's mouth said. His eyes traced over Josiah again, hardening at the bruises and scrapes.

 

Josiah didn't rise from his seat, but beckoned Arthur closer sluggishly. Arthur almost fell face first on the dock in his haste to reach Josiah's side.

 

Josiah's arm trembled at the effort to reach up and cup Arthur's face in one hand. “Darling,” he rasped. “You did so well. I'm proud of you.”

 

Arthur's eyes shut and he brushed a kiss into Josiah's palm.

 

“I thought you were _dying._ ”

 

Arthur's mouth twisted and he flinched away—he clearly hadn't meant to say that.

 

“I found Gwydion saddled and spooked on the prarie. Took me the better part of a while to calm 'im down and take 'im back to camp to Charles, but you...” Arthur's hoarse voice trailed of sharply.

 

“Arthur,” he said, meaning only _please_.

 

There was something brittle enough in Arthur's eyes that Josiah was sure that he would cut himself on it if he failed. He wondered if he should say something, if there was something he was meant to do.

 

“Yer words were in my head, all the time, when this started,” Arthur mumbled. “Every kind thing ya ever said to me. I didn't want it. I wanted to be free. And then I thought I'd never hear you say them again.”

 

 _Profoundly fucked_ was perhaps the best appraisal of Josiah's body, but he wasn't going to listen to Arthur break above him and not do anything about it. His hands clutched Arthur's shirt collar and he dragged himself up to his feet, swinging up to Arthur and anchoring himself against his chest.

 

Arthur caught him around the waist with an alarmed noise.

 

Josiah hushed Arthur and wound his arms around his neck. He let Arthur take his weight and closed his eyes against the setting sun.

 

“You need a doctor.”

 

Josiah lolled his head to and fro in a half-credible show of denial. “That can wait. Arthur, I was stolen like a man's pocket watch. I can't let that be unpaid.”

 

Josiah peeled away and staggered toward the horses. Arthur bound after him and dragged Josiah's arm over his shoulders, taking his weight again.

 

“How did you find me, clever clogs?”

 

“Charles helped me track you. He's gone after Micah now, but he said he didn't have much to go on. It's been hours, magpie.”

 

With a steadying breath, Josiah lurched forward into the second horse's side. He grasped the saddle and hauled himself up. He cried out at the pain of it, hot enough to dampen his vision into a hazy tunnel.

 

Josiah spun blindly away from the strange horse and Arthur caught him by the elbow.

 

“It is possible I may have been a little too gallant,” Josiah admitted, from what seemed a great, foggy distance.

 

Arthur swore quietly. His face was tight with worry and exhaustion. He really was unfairly handsome in this light. Any light. A moonless night.

 

“Here,” he muttered, and knelt in the mud before Josiah. Josiah blinked at him dumbly before he realized and his heart stopped.

 

In something out of Mary Beth's gentleman's-jacket-between-a-lady's-feet-and-a-puddle stories, he stepped his muddy shoe on Arthur's knee and hoisted himself up into the saddle with a strangled wail. Arthur's hands shot up to his thigh when Josiah listed dangerously to one side.

 

“Whoa there,” Arthur murmured, and gave Josiah's knee a squeeze. “You good to ride?”

 

Josiah gave him a wobbly smile. “I'll have to be, Arthur.”

 

Arthur pinched his eyes shut for a moment before he opened them again, mouth tight. “I'll be right next to you the whole way, I promise. When this is over, I'll be next to you tonight.”

 

“I believe you. Thank you, dear boy.”

 

Arthur climbed on Bo's back and wheeled her close to the other mare's side.

 

“Dearest, I know you must be quite tired after your exciting day, but I must ask three things of you.”

 

Arthur's brow quirked in a suggestion of what he thought of Josiah's notion of _exciting_. “I'm yours to command.”

 

“Please escort me back to camp. Should I fall off my horse, I beg that you'll not let me lay too long in the dirt. Getting your stray O'Driscoll to Dutch is foremost on my mind—second only to you, of course.”

 

“Naturally. What else?”

 

“Dutch and I are old friends, but he doesn't trust me the way he trusts you. Explain everything to him when we get to camp, my darling, and I'll live a hundred years and never forget it.”

 

“Explain everything?”

 

Josiah hesitated. “Perhaps not everything. I don't care for him to know that I've been buggering the man he sees as his firstborn son. No doubt Micah will defend himself with such an argument when Dutch finds his rat hole, but it will be seen as nothing more than the desperate lies of a condemned dimwit. Dutch might have listened if Micah had been playing just him, but playing him and Colm for the law? Dutch will shoot him on sight.”

 

“And third?”

 

“Have you ever been to Mexico, dearest? Beautiful vistas, excellent hunting. I have a rich history of _not_ getting kidnapped there. I insist you stay at my villa. Surely you've earned a holiday.”

 

Arthur tried to fight the smile off his face and lost. “I'll take it under advisement.”

 

“At least think about it.”

 

“I promise. Here, I got something for you. Hold out your hand.”

 

Josiah gave Arthur what he feared was a tellingly loopy smile. Arthur reached close, behind his ear, and plucked out a marquis cut sapphire, displaying it in the light before settling it in Josiah's proffered hand.

 

Josiah gaped. His free hand flew up to his ear before he laughed. Arthur's eyes softened, crow's feet disappearing in his pleasure.

 

There were many times after that moment when Josiah supposed it was not possible for him to love his boy any more ardently, and on all such occasions he was proven perfectly wrong.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @RosiePosieOlie for the beautiful, stupendous, fucking AMAZING art. I'm in love with it. She can run me over with her car. None of us deserve her. Go follow her on twitter. Special thanks to @mitten_crab, an utter sweetie.
> 
> You can follow me at my new twitter @radicalskeletal for prompts and shit.


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